GIFT  OF 


SHE    STEPPED    INTO   TUE   GALLERY   BEFORE   HE    COULD    PROTEST. 


THAT  LASS  O'  LOWRIE'S 


BY 

FRANCES  HODGSON  BURNETT 


NEW    YORK: 
SCRIBNfR,   ARMSTRONG   &   COMPANY 

1877. 
[All  Rights  Reserved.  ] 


COPYKrOHT  BY 

SCRIBNBE.  ARMSTRONG  &  CO., 

1877. 


TROW'S 
PRINTING  AND  BOOKBINDING  Co., 

PRINTERS    AND    BOOKBINDERS, 

205-213  East  \2th  St., 

NEW   YOKK. 


PS 

7 

/8 

KW/KJ 


CONTENTS. 


TAG* 

CHAPTER  I. 
A  Difficult  Case.    .  1 


CHAPTER  II. 
Liz"..  14 


CHAPTER  III. 
The  Reverend  Harold  Barholm 26 

CHAPTER  IV. 
u  Love  me,  Love  my  Dog  " 39 

CHAPTER  V. 
Outside  the  Hedge 46 

CHAPTER  VL 
Joan  and  the  Child 57 

CHAPTER  VII. 
Anice  at  the  Cottage 65 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
The  Wager  of  Battle 69 

CHAPTER  IX. 
The  News  at  the  Rectory 78 


vi  CONTENTS. 

PAGH 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 
Alive  Yet 235 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. 
Watching  and  Waiting 238 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 
Recognition 242 

CHAPTER  XXXIX, 
Testimonial 246 

CHAPTER  XL. 
Going  South 250 

CHAPTER  XLI. 
"Asoarto'Pollygy" 255 

CHAPTER    XLII. 
Ashley- Wold 258 

CHAPTER  XLIII. 
Liz  comes  Back 264 

CHAPTER  XLIV. 
Not  Yet... t       .267 


THAT   LASS    O'  LOWRIE'S. 


CHAPTEK  I. 

A  DIFFICULT   CASE. 

THEY  did  riot  look  like  women,  or  at  least  a  stranger 
new  to  the  district  might  easily  have  been  misled  by  their 
appearance,  as  they  stood  together  in  a  group,  by  the  pit's 
mouth.  There  were  about  a  dozen  of  them  there — all 
"  pit- girls,"  as  they  were  called ;  women  who  wore  a 
dress  more  than  half  masculine,  and  who  talked  loudly 
and  laughed  discordantly,  and  some  of  whom,  God  knows, 
had  faces  as  hard  and  brutal  as  the  hardest  of  their  col 
lier  brothers  and  husbands  and  sweethearts.  They  had 
lived  among  the  coal-pits,  and  had  worked  early  and  late 
at  the  "  mouth,"  ever  since  they  had  been  old  enough  to 
take  part  in  the  heavy  labor.  It  was  not  to  be  wondered 
at  that  they  had  lost  all  bloom  of  womanly  modesty  and 
gentleness.  Their  mothers  had  been  "pit-girls"  in  their 
time,  their  grandmothers  in  theirs ; '  they  had  been  born 
in  coarse  homes ;  they  had  fared  hardly,  and  worked  hard ; 
Uiey  had  breathed  in  the  dust  and  grime  of  coal,  and, 
Bomehow  or  other,  it  seemed  to  stick  to  them  and  reveal 
itself  in  their  natures  as  it  did  in  their  bold  unwashed 
faces.  At  first  one  shrank  from  them,  but  one's  shrink 
ing  could  not  fail  to  change  to  pity.  There  was  no  ele- 


ment  of  softness  to  rule  or  even  influence  them  in  their 
half  savage  existence. 

On  the  particular  evening  of  which  I  speak,  the  group 
at  the  pit's  mouth  were  even  more  than  usually  noisy. 
They  were  laughing,  gossiping  and  joking,  —  coarse 
enough  jokes,  —  and  now  and  then  a  listener  might  have 
heard  an  oath  flung  out  as  if  all  were  well  used  to  the 
sound.  Most  of  them  were  young  women,  though  there 
were  a  few  older  ones  among  them,  and  the  principal 
figure  in  the  group  —  the  center  figure,  about  whom  the 
rest  clustered  —  was  a  young  woman.  But  she  differed 
from  the  rest  in  two  or  three  respects.  The  others 
seemed  somewhat  stunted  in  growth  ;  she  was  tall  enough 
to  be  imposing.  She  was  as  roughly  clad  as  the  poorest 
of  them,  but  she  wore  her  uncouth  garb  differently.  The 
man's  jacket  of  fustian,  open  at  the  neck,  bared  a  hand 
some  sunbrowned  throat.  The  man's  hat  shaded  a  face 
with  dark  eyes  that  had  a  sort  of  animal  beauty,  and  a 
well-molded  chin.  It  was  at  this  girl  that  all  the  rough 
jokes  seemed  to  be  directed. 

"  I'll  tell  thee,  Joan,"  said  one  woman,  "  we'st  ha'  thee 
sweetheartin'  wi'  him,  afore  th'  month's  out." 

"  Aye,"  laughed  her  fellows,  "  so  we  shall.  Tha'st  ha' 
to  turn  soft  after  aw.  Tha  conna  stond  out  aain'  th' 


agan 


Lunnon  chap.  We'st  ha'  thee  sweetheartin',  Joan,  i'  th' 
face  o'  aw  tha'st  said." 

Joan  Lowrie  faced  them  defiantly  : 

"  Tha'st  noari  ha'  me  sweetheartin'  wi'  siccan  a  foo','"'' 
she  said,  "  I  amina  ower  fond  o'  men  folk  at  no  time.  I've 
had  my  fill  on  'em  ;  and  I'm  noan  loike  to  tak'  up  wi' 
such  loike  as  this  un.  An'  he's  no  an  aLunnorier  neither. 
He's  on'y  fro'  th'  South.  An  th'  South  is  na  Lunnon." 

"  He's    getten'   Lunnon   ways    tho',"    put   in   another. 


A  DIFFICULT  CASE.  3 

"  Choppin*  his  words  up  an'  mincin'  'em  sma'.  He's 
noan  Lancashire,  onj  gowk  could  tell." 

"I  dunnot  see  as  he  minces  so,"  said  Joan  ro'.ighly. 
"  He  dunnot  speak  our  loike,  but  he's  well  enow  i'  his 
way." 

A  boisterous  peal  of  laughter  interrupted  her. 

"I  thowt  tha'  ca'ed  him  a  foo'  a  minute  sin',"  cried  two 
or  three  voices  at  once.  "  Eh,  Joan,  lass,  tha'st  goin'  tj 
change  thy  moind,  I  see." 

The  girl's  eyes  flashed. 

"  Theer's  others  I  could  ca'  foo's,"  she  said ;  "  I  need 
na  go  far  to  foind  foo's.  Foo'  huntin's  th'  best  sport  out, 
an'  th'  safest.  Leave  th'  engineer  alone  an'  leave  me 
alone  too.  It  '11  be  th'  best  fur  yo'." 

She  turned  round  and  strode  out  of  the  group. 
Another  burst  of  derisive  laughter  followed  her,  but  she 
took  no  notice  of  it.  She  took  no  notice  of  anything — 
not  even  of  the  two  men  who  at  that  very  moment  passed 
and  turned  to  look  at  her  as  she  went  by. 

"  A  fine  creature  !  "  said  one  of  them. 

"  A  fine  creature  !  "  echoed  the  other.  "  Yes,  and  yon 
see  that  is  precisely  it,  Derrick.  (  A  fine  creature ' — 
and  nothing  else." 

They  were  the  young  engineer  and  his  friend  the 
Reverend  Paul  Grace,  curate  of  the  parish.  There  were 
never  two  men  more  unlike,  physically  and  mentally,  and 
yet  it  would  have  been  a  hard  task  to  find  two  natures 
more  harmonious  and  sympathetic.  Still  most  people 
wondered  at  and  failed  to  comprehend  their  friendship. 
The  mild,  nervous  little  Oxonian  barely  reached  Derrick's 
shoulder ;  his  finely  cut  face  was  singularly  feminine  and 
innocent ;  the  mild  eyes  beaming  from  behind  his  small 
spectacles  had  an  absent,  dreamy  look.  One  could  not 


4  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRI&8. 

fail  to  see  at  the  first  glance,  that  this  refined,  restless, 
conscientious  little  gentleman  was  hardly  the  person  to 
cope  successfully  with  Riggan.  Derrick  strode  by  his  side 
like  a  young  son  of  Anak — brains  and  muscle  evenly 
balanced  and  fully  developed. 

lie  turned  his  head  over  his  shoulder  to  look  at  Joan 
Lowrie  once  again. 

"  That  girl,"  said  Grace,  "  has  worked  at  the  pit's  mouth 
from  her  childhood  ;  her  mother  was  a  pit  girl  until  she 
died — of  hard  work,  privation  and  ill  treatment.  Her 
father  is  a  collier  and  lives  as  most  of  them  do — drinking, 
rioting,  fighting.  Their  home  is  such  a  home  as  you  have 
seen  dozens  of  since  you  came  here  ;  the  girl  could  not 
better  it  if  she  tried,  and  would  not  know  how  to  begin  if 
she  felt  inclined.  She  has  borne,  they  tell  me,  such  treat 
ment  as  would  have  killed  most  women.  She  has  been 
beaten,  bruised,  felled  to  the  earth  by  this  father  of  hers, 
who  is  said  to  be  a  perfect  fiend  in  his  cups.  And  yet 
she  holds  to  her  place  in  their  wretched  hovel,  and  makes 
herself  a  slave  to  the  fellow  with  a  dogged,  stubborn  de 
termination.  What  can  I  do  with  such  a  case  as  that, 
Derrick  \ " 

"  You  have  tried  to  make  friends  with  the  girl  ? "  said 
Derrick. 

Grace  colored  sensitively. 

:'  There  is  not  a  man,  woman  or  child  in  the  parish," 
he  answered,  "  with  whom  I  have  not  conscientiously 
tried  to  make  friends,  and  there  is  scarcely  one,  I 
think,  with  whom  I  have  succeeded.  Why  can  I  not  suc 
ceed  1  Why  do  I  always  fail  ?  The  fault  must  be  with 
myself " 

"  A  mistake  that  at  the  outset,"  interposed  Derrick 
"  There  is  no  <  fault '  in  the  matter  ;  there  is  simply  mis- 


A  DIFFICULT  CASE.  5 

fortune.  Your  parishioners  are  so  unfortunate  as  not  to 
be  able  to  understand  you,  and  on  your  part  you  are  so 
unfortunate  as  to  fail  at  first  to  place  yourself  on  the  right 
footing  with  them.  I  say  '  at  first,'  you  observe.  Give 
yourself  time,  Grace,  and  give  them  time  too." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  Reverend  Paul.  "  But  speak 
ing  of  this  girl — '  That  lass  o'  Lowrie's,'  as  she  is  always 
called — Joan  I  believe  her  name  is.  Joan  Lowrie  is,  I 
can  assure  you,  a  weight  upon  me.  I  cannot  help  her 
and  I  cannot  rid  my  mind  of  her.  She  stands  apart  from 
her  fellows.  She  has  most  of  the  faults  of  her  class,  but 
none  of  their  follies ;  and  she  has  the  reputation  of  being 
half  feared,  half  revered.  The  man  who  dared  to  ap 
proach  her  with  the  coarse  love-making  which  is  the 
fashion  among  them,  would  rue  it  to  the  last  day  of  his 
life.  She  seems  to  defy  all  the  world." 

"  And  it  is  impossible  to  win  upon  her  ? " 

"  More  than  impossible.  The  first  time  I  went .  to  her 
with  sympathy,  I  felt  myself  a  child  in  her  hands.  She 
never  laughed  nor  jeered  at  me  as  the  rest  do.  She  stood 
before  me  like  a  rock,  listening  until  I  had  finished  speak 
ing.  <  Parson,'  she  said,  '  if  thal't  leave  me  alone,  I'll 
leave  thee  alone,'  and  then  turned  about  and  walked  into 
the  house.  I  am  nothing  but  '  th'  parson'  to  these  people, 
and  '  th'  parson '  is  one  for  whom  they  have  little  respect 
and  no  sympathy." 

He  was  not  far  wrong.  The  stolid  heavy-natured  col 
liers  openly  looked  down  upon  '  th'  parson.'  A  i  bit  of  a 
shipper  snapper,'  even  the  best-natured  called  him  in 
sovereign  contempt  for  his  insignificant  physical  propor 
tions.  Truly  the  sensitive  little  gentleman's  lines  had  not 
fallen  in  pleasant  places.  And  this  was  not  all.  There 
was  another  source  of  discouragement  with  which  he  had 


6  THAT  LASti  O>  LOWRI&S. 

to  battle  in  secret,  though  of  this  he  would  have  felt  it 
almost  dishonor  to  complain.  But  Derrick's  keen  eyes  had 
seen  it  long  ago,  and,  understanding  it  well,  he  sympa 
thized  with  his  friend  accordingly.  Yet,  despite  the 
many  rebuffs  the  curate  had  met  with,  he  was  not  con 
quered  by  any  means.  His  was  not  an  easily  subdued 
nature,  after  all.  He  was  very  warm  on  the  subject  of 
Joan  Lowrie  this  evening — so  warm,  indeed,  that  the  in 
terest  the  mere  sight  of  the  girl  had  awakened  in  Der 
rick's  mind  was  considerably  heightened.  They  were  still 
speaking  of  her  when  they  stopped  before  the  door  of 
Grace's  modest  lodgings. 

"You  will  come  in,  of  course?"  said  Paul. 

"Yes,"  Derrick  answered,  "for  a  short  time.  I  am 
tired  and  shall  feel  all  the  better  for  a  cup  of  Mrs.  Bur- 
nie's  tea,"  pushing  the  hair  back  from  his  forehead,  as  he 
had  a  habit  of  doing  when  a  little  excited. 

He  made  the  small  parlor  appear  smaller  than  ever, 
when  he  entered  it.  He  was  obliged  to  bend  his  head 
when  he  passed  through  the  door,  and  it  was  not  until  he 
had  thrown  himself  into  the  largest  easy  chair,  that  the 
trim  apartment  seemed  to  regain  its  countenance. 

Grace  paused  at  the  table,  and  with  a  sudden  flush,  took 
up  a  letter  that  lay  there  among  two  or  three  uninteresting- 
looking  epistles. 

"  It  is  a  note  from  Miss  Anice,"  he  said,  coming  to  the 
hearth  and  applying  his  pen- knife  in  a  gentle  way  to  the 
small  square  envelope. 

"  Not  a  letter,  Grace  ? "  said  Derrick  with  a  smile. 

"  A  letter !  Oh  dear,  no !  She  has  never  written  me  a 
letter.  They  are  always  notes  with  some  sort  of  business 
object.  She  has  very  decided  views  on  the  subject  oi 
miscellaneous  letter- writing" 


A  DIFFICULT  CASE.  7 

H/>  read  the  note  himself  and  then  handed  it  to 
Derrick. 

It  was  a  compact,  decided  hand,  free  from  the  suspi 
cion  of  an  unnecessary  curve. 

''DEAR  MR.  GRACE, — 

"  Many  thanks  for  the  book.  You  are  very  kind  indeed.  Pray  let 
us  hf  ar  something-  more  about  your  people.  I  am  afraid  papa  must  find 
them  very  discouraging,  but  I  cannot  help  feeling  interested.  Grand- 
man?  ma  wishes  to  be  remembered  to  you. 

"With  more  thanks, 

"  Believe  me  your  friend, 

ANICE  BARHOLM/' 

Derrick  refolded  the  note  and  handed  it  back  to  his 
friend.  To  tell  the  truth,  it  did  not  impress  him  very 
favorably.  A  girl  not  yet  twenty  years  old,  who  could 
write  such  a  note  as  this  to  a  man  who  loved  her,  must  be 
rather  too  self-contained  and  well  balanced. 

"  You  have  never  told  me  much  of  this  story,  Grace," 
he  said. 

"  There  is  not  much  to  tell,"  answered  the  curate,  flush 
ing  again.  "  She  is  the  Rector's  daughter.  I  have  known 
her  three  years.  You  remember  I  wrote  to  you  about 
meeting  her  while  you  were  in  India.  As  for  the  rest,  I 
do  not  exactly  understand  myself  how  it  is  that  I  have 
gone  so  far,  having  so — so  little  encouragement — in  fact 
having  had  no  encouragement  at  all  ;  but,  however  that 
is,  it  has  grown  upon  me,  Derrick, — my  feeling  for  her 
has  grown  into  my  life.  She  has  never  cared  for  me.  I 
am  quite  sure  of  that,  you  see.  Indeed,  I  could  hardly 
expect  it.  It  is  not  her  way  to  care  for  men  as  they  are 
likely  to  care  for  her,  though  it  will  come  some  day,  I 
suppose — with  the  coming  man,"  half  smiling.  "She  is 
limply  what  she  signs  herself  here,  my  friend  Anice  Bar- 


8  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRIWS. 

holm,  and  I  am  thankful  for  that  much.     She  would  not 
write  even  that  if  she  did  not  mean  it." 

"  Bless  my  soul,"  broke   in   Derrick,  tossing  back  his 
head  impatiently  ;    "  and  she  is  only  nineteen  yet,  you 


"  Only  nineteen,"  said  the  curate,  with  simple  trustful 
ness  in  his  friend's  sympathy,  "but  different,  you  knew, 
from  any  other  woman  I  have  ever  seen." 

Tne  tea  and  toast  came  in  then,  and  they  sat  down  to 
gether  to  partake  of  it.  Derrick  knew  Anice  quite  well 
before  the  meal  was  ended,  and  yet  he  had  not  asked 
many  questions.  He  knew  how  Grace  had  met  her  at 
her  father's  house — an  odd,  self-reliant,  very  pretty  and 
youthful-looking  little  creature,  with  the  force  and  de 
cision  of  half  a  dozen  ordinary  women  hidden  in  her 
small  frame ;  how  she  had  seemed  to  like  him  ;  how  their 
intimacy  had  grown ;  how  his  gentle,  deep-rooted  passion 
had  grown  with  it ;  how  he  had  learned  to  understand 
that  he  had  nothing  to  hope  for. 

"  I  am  a  little  fearful  for  the  result  of  her  first  visit 
here,"  said  Grace,  pushing  his  cup  aside  and  looking 
troubled.  "  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of  her  being  disap 
pointed  and  disturbed  by  the  half -savage  state  in  which 
these  people  live.  She  knows  nothing  of  the  mining  dis 
tricts.  She  has  never  been  in  Lancashire,  and  they 
have  always  lived  in  the  South.  She  is  in  Kent  now, 
with  Mrs.  Barholm's  mother.  And  though  I  have  tried, 
in  my  short  letters  to  her,  to  prepare  her  for  the  rough 
side  of  life  she  will  be  obliged  to  see,  I  am  afraid  it  is  im 
possible  for  her  to  realize  it,  and  it  may  be  a  shock  to  her 
when  she  comes." 

"  She  is  coming  to  Riggan  then  ?  "  said  Derrick. 

"  In  a  few  weeks.     She  has  been  visiting  Mrs.  Gallo- 


A  DIFFICULT  CASE.  9 

way  since  the  Rector  gave  up  his  living  at  Ashley-wolde, 
and  Mrs.  Barholm  told  me  to-day  that  she  spoke  in  her 
last  letter  of  coming  to  them." 

The  moon  was  shining  brightly  when  Derrick  stepped 
out  into  the  street  later  in  the  evening,  and  though  the 
aii  was  somewhat  chill  it  was  by  no  means  unpleasant. 
He  had  rather  a  long  walk  before  him.  He  disliked  the 
smoke  and  dust  of  the  murky  little  town,  and  chose  to 
live  on  its  outskirts  ;  but  he  was  fond  of  sharp  exe1  jise, 
anil  regarded  the  distance  between  his  lodging  and  the 
field  of  his  daily  labor  as  an  advantage. 

"  I  work  off  a  great  deal  of  superfluous  steam  between 
the  two  places,"  he  said  to  Grace  at  the  door.  "  The 
wind  coming  across  Boggart  Brow  has  a  way  of  scattering 
and  cooling  restless  plans  and  feverish  fancies,  that  is  good 
for  a  man.  Half  a  mile  of  the  Knoll  Road  is  often  enough 
to  blow  all  the  morbidness  out  of  a  fellow." 

To-night  by  the  time  he  reached  the  corner  that  turned 
him  upon  the  Knoll  Itoad,  his  mind  had  wandered  upon 
an  old  track,  but  it  had  been  drawn  there  by  a  new  ob 
ject, — nothing  other  than  Joan  Lowrie,  indeed.  The  im 
pression  made  upon  him  by  the  story  of  Joan  and  her 
outcast  life  was  one  not  easy  to  be  effaced.  The  hard 
est  miseries  in  the  lot  of  a  class  in  whom  he  could  not 
fail  to  be  interested,  were  grouped  about  that  dramatic 
figure.  He  was  struck,  too,  by  a  painful  sense  of  incon 
gruity. 

"  If  she  had  been  in  this  other  girl's  niche,"  he  said, 
"if  she  had  lived  the  life  of  this  Anice " 

But  he  did  not  finish  his  sentence.  Something,  not 
many  yards  beyond  him,  caught  his  eye — a  figure  seated 
upon  the  road-side  near  a  collier's  cottage — evidently  a 
pit  girl  in  some  trouble,  for  her  head  was  bowed  upon  her 


10  THAT  LASS   V  LOWRIE' & 

hands,  and  there  was  a  dogged  sort  of  misery  expressed  in 
her  very  posture. 

"  A  woman,"  he  said  aloud.  "  What  woman,  I  wonder. 
Thip  is  not  the  time  for  any  woman  to  be  sitting  here 
alone." 

He  crossed  the  road  at  once,  and  going  to  the  girl, 
touched  her  lightly  on  the  shoulder. 

"  My  lass,"  he  said  good-naturedly,  "  what  ails  you  ?  " 

She  raised  her  head  slowly  as  if  she  were  dizzy  and  be 
wildered.  Her  face  was  disfigured  by  a  bruise,  and  on 
one  temple  was  a  cut  from  which  the  blood  trickled  down 
her  cheek;  but  the  moonlight  showed  him  that  it  was 
loan.  He  removed  his  hand  from  her  shoulder  and  drew 
back  a  pace. 

"  You  have  been  hurt !  "  he  exclaimed. 

" Aye,"  she  answered  deliberately,  "I've  had  a  hurt — a 
bad  un." 

He  did  not  ask  her  how  she  had  been  hurt.  He  knew 
as  well  as  if  she  had  told  him,  that  it  had  been  done  in 
one  of  her  father's  fits  of  drunken  passion.  He  had  seen 
this  sort  of  thing  before  during  his  sojourn  in  the  mining 
districts.  But,  shamefully  repulsive  as  it  had  been  to 
him,  he  had  never  felt  the  degradation  of  it  as  fiercely 
as  he  did  now. 

"  You  are  Joan  Lowrie  2 "  he  said. 

"  Aye,  I'm  Joan  Lowrie,  if  it  '11  do  yo'  ony  good  to 
know." 

"  You  must  have  something  done  to  that  cut  upon  your 
temple." 

She  put  up  her  hand  and  wiped  the  blood  awaj,  as  if 
impatient  at  his  persistence. 

"  It  '11  do  well  enow  as  it  is,"  she  said. 

"  That  is  a  mistake,"  he  answered.     "  Yon  are  losing 


A  DIFFICULT  CASE.  H 

more  blood  than  you  imagine.  Will  you  let  me  help 
you?" 

She  stirred  uneasily. 

Derrick  took  no  notice  of  the  objection.  He  drew  his 
handkerchief  from  his  pocket,  and,  after  some  little  effort, 
managed  to  stanch  the  bleeding,  and  having  done  so, 
bound  the  wound  up.  Perhaps  something  in  his  sympa 
thetic  silence  and  the  quiet  consideration  of  his  manner 
touched  Joan.  Her  face,  upturned  almost  submissive 
ly,  for  the  moment  seemed  tremulous,  and  she  set  her 
lips  together.  She  did  not  speak  until  he  had  finished, 
and  then  she  rose  and  stood  before  him  immovable  as 
ever. 

"  Thank  yo',"  she  said  in  a  suppressed  voice,  "  I  canna 
say  no  more." 

"  Never  mind  that,"  he  answered,  "  I  could  have  done 
no  less.  If  you  could  go  home  now -" 

"  I  shall  na  go  whoam  to  neet,"  she  interrupted  him. 

"  You  cannot  remain  out  of  doors  ! "  he  exclaimed. 

"  If  I  do,  it  wunnot  be  th'  first  toiine,"  meeting  his 
startled  glance  with  a  pride  which  defied  him  to  pity  or 
question  her.  But  his  sympathy  and  interest  must  have 
stirred  her,  for  the  next  minute  her  manner  softened. 
tv  I've  done  it  often,"  she  added,  "  an'  nowts  niwer  feared 
me.  Yo'  need  na  care,  Hester,  I'm  used  to  it." 

"  But  I  cannot  go  away  and  leave  you  here,"  he  said. 

"  You  canna  do  no  other,"  she  answered. 

"  Have  you  no  friends  ?  "  he  ventured  hesitatingly. 

"No,  I  ha'  not,"  she  said,  hardening  again,  and  she 
turned  away  as  if  she  meant  to  end  the  discussion.  But 
he  would  not  leave  her.  The  spirit  of  determination  was 
as  strong  in  his  character  as  in  her  own.  He  tore  a  leaf 
from  his  pocket-book,  and,  writing  a  few  lines  upon  it, 


12  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRI&S. 

handed  it  to  her.  "  If  you  will  take  that  to  Thwaites' 
wife,"  he  said,  "  there  will  be  no  necessity  for  your  re 
maining  out  of  doors  all  night." 

She  took  it  from  him  mechanically;  but  when  he 
finished  speaking,  her  calmness  left  her.  Her  hand  be 
gan  to  tremble,  and  then  her  whole  frame,  and  the  next 
instant  the  note  fell  to  the  ground,  and  she  dropped  into 
her  old  place  again,  sobbing  passionately  and  hiding  her 
face  on  her  arms. 

"  I-  wunnot  tak'  it !  "  she  cried.  "  I  wunnot  go  no  wheer 
an'  tell  as  I'm  turned  loike  a  dog  into  th'  street." 

Her  misery  and  shame  shook  her  like  a  tempest.  But 
she  subdued  herself  at  last. 

u  I  dunnot  see  as  yo'  need  care,"  she  protested  half  re 
sentfully.  "  Other  folk  dunnot.  I'm  left  to  mysen  most 
o'  toimes."  Her  head  fell  again  and  she  trembled  from 
head  to  foot. 

"  But  I  do  care  !  "  he  returned.  "  I  cannot  leave  you 
here  and  will  not.  If  you  will  trust  me  and  do  as  I  tell 
you,  the  people  you  go  to  need  know  nothing  you  do  not 
choose  to  tell  them." 

It  was  evident  that  his  determination  made  her  falter, 
and  seeing  this  he  followed  up  his  advantage  and  so  far 
improved  it  that  at  last,  after  a  few  more  arguments,  she 
rose  slowly  and  picked  up  the  fallen  paper. 

"  If  I  mun  go,  I  mnn,"  she  said,  twisting  it  nervously 
in  her  fingers,  and  then  there  was  a  pause,  in  which  she 
plainly  lingered  to  say  something,  for  she  stood  before 
him  with  a  restrained  air  and  downcast  face.  She  broke 
the  silence  herself,  however,  suddenly  looking  up  and  fix 
ing  her  large  eyes  full  upon  him. 

"  If  I  was  a  lady,"  she  said,  "  happen  I  should  know 
what  to  say  to  yo' ;  but  bein'  what  I  am,  I  dunnot.  Hap- 


A  DIFFICULT  CASE.  13 

pen  as  yo're  a  gentleman  yo'  know  what  I'd  loike  to  say 
an  canna — happen  yo'  do." 

Even  as  she  spoke,  the  instinct  of  defiance  in  her  nature 
struggled  against  that  of  gratitude ;  but  the  finer  instinct 
conquered. 

"  We  will  not  speak  of  thanks,"  he  said.  "  I  may  need 
help  some  day,  and  corne  to  you  for  it." 

"  If  yo'  ivver  need  help  at  th'  pit  will  yo'  come  to  me  ?  " 
she  demanded.  "I've  seen  th' toime  as  I  could  ha'gi'en 
help  to  th'  Hesters  ef  I'd  had  th'  moind.  If  yo'll  pro 
mise  that " 

"  I  will  promise  it,"  he  answered  her. 

"An'  I'll  promise  to  gi'  it  yo',"  eagerly.  "So  that's 
settled.  Now  I'll  go  my  ways.  Good  neet  to  yo'." 

"  Good  night,"  he  returned,  and  uncovering  with  as 
grave  a  courtesy  as  he  might  have  shown  to  the  finest  lady 
in  the  land,  or  to  his  own  mother  or  sister,  he  stood  at  the 
road-side  and  watched  her  until  she  was  out  of  sight. 


CHAPTER  II 


"  TH'  owd  lad's  been  at  his  tricks  again,"  was  the  lough 
comment  made  on  Joan  Lowrie's  appearance  when  she 
came  down  to  her  work  the  next  morning ;  but  Joan 
looked  neither  right  nor  left,  and  went  to  her  place  with 
out  a  word.  Not  one  among  them  had  ever  heard  her 
speak  of  her  miseries  and  wrongs,  or  had  known  her  to 
do  otherwise  than  ignore  the  fact  that  their  existence  was 
well  known  among  her  fellow-workers. 

When  Derrick  passed  her  on  his  way  to  his  duties,  she 
looked  up  from  her  task  with  a  faint,  quick  color,  and  re 
plied  to  his  courteous  gesture  with  a  curt  yet  not  ungra 
cious  nod.  It  was  evident  that  not  even  her  gratitude 
would  lead  her  to  encourage  any  advances.  But,  not 
withstanding  this,  he  did  not  feel  repelled  or  disappoint 
ed.  Pie  had  learned  enough  of  Joan,  in  their  brief  inter 
view,  to  prepare  him  to  expect  no  other  manner  from  her. 
He  was  none  the  less  interested  in  the  girl  because  he 
found  himself  forced  to  regard  her  curiously  and  criti 
cally,  and  at  a  distance.  He  watched  her  as  she  went 
abo'tl  her  work,  silent,  self-contained  and  solitary. 

"That  lass  o'  Lowrie's!  "  said  a  superannuated  old  col 
lier  once,  in  answer  to  a  remark  of  Derrick's.  "  Eh  I 
hoo's  a  rare  un,  hoo  is  1  Th'  fellys  is  haaf  feart  on  her. 
Tha'  sees  hoo's  gotten  a  bit  o'  skoolin'.  Hoo  con  read  a 
bit,  if  tha'll  believe  it,  Mester,"  with  a  touch  of  pride. 


15 

"  Not  as  th'  owd  chap  ivver  did  owt  fur  her  i'  that 
road,"  the  speaker  went  on,  nothing  ioath  to  gossip  with 
'  one  o'  th'  Mesters.'  "  He  nivver  did  nowt  fur  her  but 
spend  her  wage  i'  drink.  But  theer  wur  a  neet  skoo'  here 
a  few  years  sen5,  an'  th'  lass  went  her  ways  wi'  a  few  o'  th' 
steady  uns,  an'  they  say  as  she  getten  ahead  on  'em  aw,  so 
as  it  wur  a  wonder.  Just  let  her  set  her  mind  to  do  owt 
an'  she'll  do  it." 

"  Here,"  said  Derrick  to  Paul  that  night,  as  the  engi 
neer  leaned  back  in  his  easy  chair,  glowering  at  the  grate 
and  knitting  his  brows,  "  Here,"  he  said,  "  is  a  creature 
with  the  majesty  of  a  Juno — though  really  nothing  but 
a  girl  in  years — who  rules  a  set  of  savages  by  the  mere 
power  of  a  superior  will  and  mind,  and  yet  a  woman 
who  works  at  the  mouth  of  a  coal-pit, — who  cannot  write 
her  own  name,  and  who  is  beaten  by  her  fiend  of  a  father 
as  if  she  were  a  dog.  Good  Heaven !  what  is  she  doing 
here  ?  What  does  it  all  mean  \  " 

The  Reverend  Paul  put  up  his  delicate  hand  deprecat- 
ingly. 

u  My  dear  Fergus,"  he  said,  "  if  I  dare — if  my  own  life 
and  the  lives  of  others  would  let  me — I  think  I  should  be 
tempted  to  give  it  up,  as  one  gives  up  other  puzzles, 
when  one  is  beaten  by  them." 

Derrick  looked  at  him,  forgetting  himself  in  a  sudden 
sympathetic  comprehension. 

"  You  have  been  more  than  ordinarily  discouraged  to 
day,"  he  said.  "  What  is  it,  Grace." 

"  Do  you  know  Sammy  Craddock,"  was  the  reply. 

"  <  Owd  Sammy  Craddock '  ? "  said  Derrick  with  a 
laugh.  "  Wasn't  it  '  Owd  Sammy,'  who  was  talking  to 
me  to-day  about  Joan  Lowrie  ?  " 

"  I  dare  say  it  was,"  sighing.     "  And  if  you  know  Sam- 


16  THAT  LASS  0'  LO  WRISTS. 

my  Craddock,  you  know  one  of  the  principal  causes  of 
iny  discouragement.  I  went  to  see  him  this  afternoon, 
and  I  have  not  quite — quite  got  over  it,  in  fact." 

Derrick's  interest  in  his  friend's  trials  was  stirred  aa 
usual  at  the  first  signal  of  distress.  It  was  the  part  of  his 
stronger  and  more  evenly  balanced  nature  to  be  constantly 
ready  with  generous  sympathy  and  comfort. 

"  It  has  struck  me,"  he  said,  "  that  Craddock  is  cue  of 
the  institutions  of  Kiggan.  I  should  like  to  hear  some 
thing  definite  concerning  him.  Why  is  he  your  principal 
cause  of  discouragement,  in  the  first  place  ? " 

"  Because  he  is  the  man  of  all  others  whom  it  is  hard 
for  me  to  deal  with, — because  he  is  the  shrewdest,  the 
most  irreverent  and  the  most  disputatious  old  fellow  in 
Riggan.  And  yet,  in  the  face  of  all  this,  because  he  is  so 
often  right,  that  I  am  forced  into  a  sort  of  respect  for  him." 

"  Eight ! "  repeated  Derrick,  raising  his  eyebrows. 
«  That's  bad." 

Grace  rose  from  the  chair,  flushing  up  to  the  roots  of 
his  hair, — 

"Right!"  he  reiterated.  "Yes,  right  I  say.  And 
how,  1  ask  you,  can  a  man  battle  against  the  faintest 
element  of  right  and  truth,  even  when  it  will  and  must 
arraign  itself  on  the  side  of  wrong.  If  I  could  shut  my 
eyes  to  the  right,  and  see  only  the  wrong,  I  might  leave 
myself  at  least  a  blind  content,  but  I  cannot — I  cannot. 
If  I  could  look  upon  these  things  as  Barholm  does — — " 
But  here  he  stopped,  suddenly  checking  himself. 

"  Thank  God  you  cannot,"  put  in  Derrick  quietly. 

For  a  few  minutes  the  Reverend  Paul  paced  the  room 
in  silence. 

"  Among  the  men  who  were  once  his  fellow-workers, 
Craddock  is  an  oracle,"  he  went  on.  "  His  influence  is 


17 

not  niuike  Joan  Lowrie's.  It  is  the  .ufluence  of  a  strong 
mind  over  weaker  ones.  His  sharp  sarcastic  speeches  are 
proverbs  among  the  Rigganites ;  he  amuses  them  and 
can  make  them  listen  to  him.  When  he  holds  up  '  Th' 
owd  parson 'to  their  ridicule,  he  sweeps  all  before  him. 
He  can  undo  in  an  hour  what  I  have  struggled  a  year  to 
accomplish.  He  was  a  collier  himself  until  he  became 
superannuated,  and  he  knows  their  natures,  you  see." 

"  What  has  he  to  say  about  Barholm  ?  "  asked  Derrick 
• — without  looking  at  his  friend,  however. 

"  Oh ! "  he  protested,  "  that  is  the  worst  side  of  it — that 
is  miserable — that  is  wretched !  I  may  as  well  speak 
openly.  Barholm  is  his  strong  card,  and  that  is  what  baf 
fles  me.  He  scans  Barholm  with  the  eye  of  an  eagle.  He 
does  not  spare  a  single  weakness.  He  studies  him — he 
knows  his  favorite  phrases  and  gestures  by  heart,  and  has 
used  them  until  there  is  not  a  Riggan  collier  who  does  not 
recognize  them  when  they  are  presented  to  him,  and  ap 
plaud  them  as  an  audience  might  applaud  the  staple  jokes 
of  a  popular  actor." 

Explained  even  thus  far,  the  case  looked  difficult 
enough  ;  but  Derrick  felt  no  wonder  at  his  friend's  dis 
couragement  when  he  had  heard  his  story  to  the  end,  and 
understood  it  fully. 

The  living  at  Riggan  had  never  been  happily  man 
aged.  It  had  been  presented  to  men  who  did  not  un 
derstand  the  people  under  their  charge,  and  to  men  whom 
the  people  failed  to  understand  ;  but  possibly  it  had 
never  before  fallen  into  the  hands  of  a  man  who  was  so 
little  qualified  to  govern  Rigganites,  as  was  the  present 
rector,  the  Reverend  Harold  Barholm.  A  man  who  has 
mistaken  his  vocation,  and  who  has  become  ever  so  faint 
ly  conscious  of  his  blunder,  may  be  a  stumbling-block  in 


18  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRI&8. 

another's  path ;  but  restrained  as  he  will  be  by  his  secret 
pangs  of  conscience,  he  can  scarcely  be  an  active  obstruc 
tionist.  But  a  man  who,  having  mistaken  the  Held  of  his 
life's  labor,  yet  remains  amiably  self -satisfied,  and  uucon 
scious  of  his  unfitness,  may  do  more  harm  in  his  serene 
ignorance  than  he  might  have  done  good  if  he  had  chosen 
his  proper  sphere.  Such  a  man  as  the  last  was  the  Rev 
erend  Harold.  A  good-natured,  broad-shouldered,  tact 
less,  self-sufficient  person,  he  had  taken  up  his  work  with 
a  complacent  feeling  that  no  field  of  labor  could  fail  to 
be  benefited  by  his  patronage ;  he  was  content  now  as 
always.  He  had  been  content  with  himself  and  his  intel 
lectual  progress  at -Oxford;  he  had  been  content  with 
his  first  parish  at  Ashley- wold  ;  he  had  been  content  then 
with  the  gentle-natured,  soft-spoken  Kentish  men  and 
women  ;  he  had  never  feared  finding  himself  unequal  to 
the  guidance  of  their  souls,  and  he  was  not  at  all  troubled 
by  the  prospect  Higgan  presented  to  him. 

"  It  is  a  different  sort  of  thing,"  he  said  to  his  curate, 
in  the  best  of  spirits,  "  and  new  to  us — new  of  course ; 
but  we  shall  get  over  that — we  shall  get  over  that  easily 
enough,  Grace." 

So  with  not  a  shadow  of  a  doubt  as  to  his  speedy  suc 
cess,  and  with  a  comfortable  confidence  in  ecclesiastical 
power,  in  whomsoever  vested,  he  called  upon  his  parish 
ioners  one  after  the  other.  He  appeared  at  their  cottages 
at  all  hours,  and  gave  the  same  greeting  to  each  of  them. 
He  was  their  new  rector,  and  having  come  to  Kiggan  with 
the  intention  of  doing  them  good,  and  improving  their 
moral  condition,  he  intended  to  do  them  good,  and  im 
prove  them,  in  spite  of  themselves.  They  must  come  to 
church:  it  was  their  business  to  come  to  church,  as  it 
was  his  business  to  preach  the  gospel.  All  this  implied, 


"  LIZ"  19 

in  half  an  hour's  half-friendly,  half -ecclesiastical  conver 
sation,  garnished  with  a  few  favorite  texts  and  religious 
platitudes,  and  the  man  felt  that  he  had  done  his  duty, 
and  done  it  well. 

Only  one  man  nonplused  him,  and  even  this  man's  effect 
upon  him  was  temporary,  only  lasting  as  long  as  his  call. 
lie  had  been  met  with  a  dogged  resentment  in  the  major 
ity  of  his  visits,  but  when  he  encountered  '  Owd  Sammy 
Craddock  '  he  encountered  a  different  sort  of  opposition. 

"  Aye,"  said  Owd  Sammy,  "  an'  so  tha'rt  th'  new  rector, 
art  ta  ?  I  thowt  as  mich  as  another  ud  spring  up  as  soon 
as  tli'  owd  un  wur  cut  down.  Tha  parsens  is  a  nettle  as 
dunnot  soon  dee  oot.  Well,  I'll  leave  thee  to  th'  owd  lass 
he're.  Hoo's  a  rare  un  fur  gab  when  hoo'  taks  th'  notion, 
an'  I'm  noan  so  mich  i'  th'  humor  t'  argufy  mysen  to 
day."  And  he  took  his  pipe  from  the  mantel-piece  and 
strolled  out  with  an  imperturbable  air. 

But  this  was  not  the  last  of  the  matter.  The  Rector 
went  again  and  again,  cheerfully  persisting  in  bringing 
the  old  sinner  to  a  proper  sense  of  his  iniquities.  There 
would  be  some  triumph  in  converting  such  a  veteran  as 
Sammy  Craddock,  and  he  was  confident  of  winning  this 
laurel  for  himself.  But  the  result  was  scarcely  what  he  had 
expected.  'Owd  Sammy'  stood  his  ground  like  an  old 
soldier.  The  fear  of  man  was  not  before  his  eyes,  and 
1  parsens '  were  his  favorite  game.  He  was  as  contuma 
cious  and  profane  as  such  men  are  apt  to  be,  and  he 
delighted  in  scattering  his  clerical  antagonists  as  a  task 
worthy  of  his  mettle.  He  encountered  the  Reverend 
Harold  with  positive  glee.  He  jeered  at  him  in  public, 
and  sneered  at  him  in  private,  and  held  him  up  to  the 
mockery  of  the  collier  men  and  lads,  with  the  dramatic 
mimicry  which  made  him  so  popular  a  character.  As  Der- 


20  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRIE'S. 

rick  had  said,  Sammy  Craddock  was  a  Riggan  institution, 
In  his  you tli,  his  fellows  had  feared  his  strength  ;  in  hia 
old  age  they  feared  his  wit.  "  Let  Ovvd  Sammy  tackle 
him,"  they  said,  when  a  new-comer  was  disputatious,  and 
hard  to  manage ;  "  Owd  Sammy's  th'  one  to  gi'  him  one 
fur  his  nob.  Owd  Sammy '11  fettle  him — graidely."  And 
the  fact  was  that  Craddock's  cantankerous  sharpness  of 
brain  and  tongue  were  usually  efficacious.  So  he 
"tackled"  Barholm,  and  so  he  "tackled"  the  curate 
But,  for  some  reason,  he  was  never  actually  bitter  against 
Grace.  He  spoke  of  him  lightly,  and  rather  sneered  at 
his  physical  insignificance  ;  but  he  did  not  hold  him  up  to 
public  ridicule. 

"  I  hav'  not  quite  settled  i'  my  moind  about  th'  little 
chap,"  he  would  say  sententiously  to  his  admirers.  "He's 
noan  siccan  a  f oo'  as  th'  owd  un,  for  he's  a  graidely  f oo', 
he  is,  and  no  mistake.  At  any  rate  a  little  f  oo'  is  better 
nor  a  big  un." 

And  there  the  matter  stood.  Against  these  tremendt  us 
odds  Grace  fought— against  coarse  and  perverted  natures, 
— worse  than  all,  against  the  power  that  should  have  been 
ranged  upon  his  side.  And  added  to  these  discourage 
ments,  were  the  obstacles  of  physical  delicacy,  and  an  al 
most  morbid  conscientiousness.  A  man  of  coarser  fiber 
might  have  borne  the  burden  better — or  at  least  with  less 
pain  to  himself. 

"  A  drop  or  so  of  Barholm's  blood  in  Grace's  veins," 
said  Derrick,  communing  with  himself  on  the  Knoll 
Road  after  their  interview — "  a  few  drops  of  Barholm's 
rich,  comfortable,  stupid  blood  in  Grace's  veins  would  not 
harm  him.  And  yet  it  would  have  to  be  but  a  few  drrpe 
indeed,"  hastily.  "  On  the  whole  1  think  it  would  be 
better  if  he  had  more  blood  of  his  own." 


21 

The  following  day  Miss  Barholm  came.  Business  had 
taken  Derrick  to  the  station  in  the  morning,  and  being 
delayed,  he  was  standing  upon  the  platform  when  one  of 
the  London  trains  came  in.  There  were  generally  so  few 
passengers  on  such  trains  who  were  likely  to  stop  at  Rig- 
gan,  that  the  few  who  did  so  were  of  some  interest  to  the 
bystanders.  Accordingly  he  stood  gazing,  in  rather  a- 
preoccupied  fashion,  at  the  carriages,  when  the  door  of 
a  first-class  compartment  opened,  and  a  girl  stepped  out 
upon  the  platform  near  him.  Before  seeing  her  face  one 
might  have  imagined  her  to  be  a  child  of  scarcely  more 
than  fourteen  or  fifteen.  This  was  Derrick's  first  impres 
sion  ;  but  when  she  turned  toward  him  he  saw  at  once 
that  it  was  not  a  child.  And  yet  it  was  a  small  face,  with 
delicate  oval  features,  smooth,  clear  skin,  and  stray  locks 
of  hazel  brown  hair  that  fell  over  the  low  forehead.  She 
had  evidently  made  a  journey  of  some  length,  for  she  was 
encumbered  with  travelling  wraps,  and  in  her  hands  she 
held  a  little  flower-pot  containing  a  cluster  of  early  blue 
violets, — such  violets  as  would  not  bloom  so  far  north  as 
Riggan,  for  weeks  to  come.  She  stood  upon  the  platform 
for  a  moment  or  so,  glancing  up  and  down  as  if  in  search 
of  some  one,  and  then,  plainly  deciding  that  the  object  of 
her  quest  had  not  arrived,  she  looked  at  Derrick  in  a  busi 
ness-like,  questioning  way.  She  was  going  to  speak  to 
him.  The  next  minute  she  stepped  forward  without  a 
shadow  of  girlish  hesitation. 

"  May  I  trouble  you  to  tell  me  where  I  can  find  a  con 
veyance  of  some  sort,"  she  said.  "  I  want  to  go  to  the 
Rectory." 

Derrick  uncovered,  recognizing  his  friend's  picture  at 
once. 

"  I    think,"    he   said    with    far   more   hesitancy   than 


22  THAT  LA&S  <7  LO  WRIE'S. 

she  had  herself  shown,  "that  this  must  be  Miss  Bar- 
holm." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered,  "  Anice  Barholm.  I  think,"  she 
said,  "  from  what  Mr.  Grace  has  said  to  me,  that  you  must 
be  his  friend." 

"  I  am  one  of  Grace's  friends,"  he  answered,  "  Fergus 
Derrick." 

She  managed  to  free  one  of  her  small  hands,  and  held 
it  out  to  him. 

She  had  arrived  earlier  than  had  been  expected,  it 
turned  out,  and  through  some  mysterious  chance  or  other, 
her  letters  to  her  friends  had  not  preceded  her,  so  there 
was  no  carriage  in  waiting,  and  but  for  Derrick  she  would 
have  been  thrown  entirely  upon  her  own  resources.  But 
after  their  mutual  introduction  the  two  were  friends  at 
once,  and  before  he  had  put  her  into  the  cab,  Derrick  had 
beirun  to  understand  what  it  was  that  led  the  Reverend 

O 

Paul  to  think  her  an  exceptional  girl.  She  knew  where 
her  trunks  were,  and  was  quite  definite  upon  the  subject 
of  what  must  be  done  with  them.  Though  pretty  and 
frail  looking  enough,  there  was  no  suggestion  of  helpless 
ness  about  her.  When  she  was  safely  seated  in  the  cab, 
she  spoke  to  Derrick  through  the  open  window. 

"  If  you  will  come  to  the  Rectory  to-night,  and  let  papa 
thank  you,"  she  said,  "  we  shall  all  be  very  glad.  Mr. 
Grace  will  be  there,  you  know,  and  I  have  a  great  many 
questions  to  ask  which  I  think  you  must  be  able  to  answer." 

Derrick  went  back  to  his  work,  thinking  about  Miss 
Barholm,  of  course.  She  was  different  from  othe'  girls, 
he  felt,  not  only  in  her  fragile  frame  and  delicate  face, 
but  with  another  more  subtle  and  less  easily  defined  dif 
ference.  There  was  a  suggestion  of  the  development  in 
a  child  of  the  soul  of  a  woman. 


"LIZ?  23 

Going  down  to  the  mine,  Derrick  found  on  approach 
ing  that  there  was  some  commotion  among  the  workers  at 
the  pit's  month,  and  before  he  turned  in  to  his  office,  he 
paused  upon  the  threshold  for  a  few  minutes  to  see  what 
it  meant.  But  it  was  not  a  disturbance  with  which  it  was 
easy  for  an  outsider  to  interfere.  A  knot  of  women 
drawn  away  from  their  work  by  some  prevailing  excite 
ment,  were  gathered  together  around  a  girl — a  pretty  but 
pale  and  haggard  creature,  with  a  helpless  despairing 
face — who  stood  at  bay  in  the  midst  of  them,  clasping  a 
child  to  her  bosom — a  target  for  all  eyes.  It  was  a 
wretched  sight,  and  told  its  o\vn  story. 

"  Wheer  ha'  yo'  been,  Liz  ? "  Derrick  heard  two  or  three 
voices  exclaim  at  once.  "  What  did  you  coom  back  for  ? 
This  is  what  thy  handsome  face  has  browt  thee  to,  is  it  ? " 

And  then  the  girl,  white,  wild-eyed  and  breathless  with 
excitement,  turned  on  them,  panting,  bursting  into  pas 
sionate  tears. 

"  Let  me  a-be :  "  she  cried,  sobbing.  "  There's  none  of 
yo'  need  to  talk.  Let  me  a-be !  I  didna  coom  back  to 
ax  nowt  fro'  none  on  you !  Eh  Joan  !  Joan  Lowrie  ?  " 

Derrick  turned  to  ascertain  the  meaning  of  this  cry  of 
appeal,  but  almost  before  he  had  time  to  do  so,  Joan  herself 
had  borne  down  upon  the  group  ;  she  had  pushed  her  way 
through  it,  and  was  standing  in  the  centre,  confronting 
the  girl's  tormentors  in  a  flame  of  wrath,  and  Liz  was 
clinging  to  her. 

"  What  ha'  they  been  sayin'  to  yo',  lass  ?  "  she  demanded. 
''  Eh !  but  yo're  a  brave  lot,  yo'  are — women  yo'  ca' 
yo'rsens  ! — badgerin'  a  slip  o'  a  wench  loike  this." 

"  1  did  na  coom  back  to  ax  nowt  fro'  noaii  o'  them," 
sobbed  the  girl.  "  I'd  rayther  dee  ony  day  nor  do  it !  I'd 
rayther  starve  i'  th'  ditch — an'  it's  eomin'  to  that.'' 


24  THAT  LASS  0'  LO  WRISTS. 

"  Here,"  said  Joan,  "  gi'  me  th'  choild." 

She  bent  down  and  took  it  from  her,  and  then  stood  up 
before  them  all,  holding  it  high  in  her  strong  arms— so 
superb,  so  statuesque,  and  yet  so  womanly  a  figure,  that  a 
thrill  shot  through  the  heart  of  the  man  watching  her. 

"  Lasses,"  she  cried,  her  voice  fairly  ringing,  "  do  yo' 
see  this  ?  A  bit  o'  a  helpless  thing  as  canna  answer  back 
yorre  jeers  !  Aye  !  look  at  it  well,  aw  on  yo'.  Some  on 
yo's  getten  th'  loike  at  wlioam.  An'  when  yo've  looked  at 
th'  choild,  look  at  th'  mother !  Seventeen  year  owd,  Liz 
is,  an'  th'  world's  gone  wrong  wi'  her.  I  wunnot  say  as 
th'  world's  gone  ower  reet  wi'  ony  on  us ;  but  them  on  us 
as  has  had  th'  strength  to  howd  up  agen  it,  need  na  set 
our  foot  on  them  as  has  gone  down.  Happen  theer's  na 
so  much  to  choose  betwixt  us  after  aw.  But  I've  gotten 
this  to  tell  yo' — them  as  has  owt  to  say  o'  Liz,  mun  say  it 
to  Joan  Lowrie  !  " 

Rough,  and  coarsely  pitiless  as  the  majority  of  them 
were,  she  had  touched  the  right  chord.  Perhaps  the  bit 
of  the  dramatic  in  her  championship  of  the  girl,  had  as 
much  to  do  with  the  success  of  her  half-commanding  ap 
peal  as  anything  else.  But  at  least,  the  most  hardened  of 
them  faltered  before  her  daring,  scornful  words,  and  the 
fire  in  her  face.  Liz  would  be  safe  enough  from  them 
henceforth,  it  was  plain. 

That  evening  while  arranging  his  papers  before  going 
home,  Derrick  was  called  from  his  work  by  a  summons  at 
the  office  door,  and  going  to  open  it,  he  found  Joan  Low 
rie  standing  there,  looking  half  abashed,  half  determined. 

"  I  ha'  summat  to  ax  yo',"  she  said  briefly,  declining 
his  invitation  to  enter  and  be  seated. 

"  If  there  is  anything  I  can  do  for — "  began  De* 
rick. 


"  LIZ."  25 

"  It  is  na  mysen,"  she  interrupted  him.  "  There  is  a 
poor  lass  as  I'm  fain  to  help,  if  I  could  do  it,  but  I  ha'  not 
th'  power.  I  dun  not  know  of  any  one  as  has,  except  yo'r- 
sen  and  th'  parson,  an'  I  know  more  o'  yo'  than  I  do  o' 
th'  parson,  so  I  thowt  I'd  ax  yo'  to  speak  to  him  about  th' 
poor  wench,  an  ax  him  if  he  could  get  her  a  bit  o'  work 
as  ud  help  to  keep  her  honest." 

Derrick  looked  at  her  handsome  face  gravely,  curi 
ously. 

"  I  saw  you  defend  this  girl  against  some  of  her  old 
companions,  a  few  hours  ago,  I  believe,"  he  said. 

She  colored,  but  did  not  return  his  glance. 

"  I  dunnot  believe  in  harryin'  women  down  th'  hill," 
she  said. 

Then,  suddenly  she  raised  her  eyes. 

"  Th'  little  un  is  a  little  lass,"  she  said,  "  an'  I  cannabide 
th'  thowt  o'  what  moight  fa'  on  her  if  her  mother's  life 
is  na  an  honest  un — I  canna  bide  the  thowt  on  it." 

"  I  will  see  my  friend  to-night,"  said  Derrick,  "  and  1 
will  speak  to  him.  Where  can  he  find  the  girl  ?  " 

"  Wi'  me,"  she  answered.  "  I'm  taken  both  on  'em 
whoam  wi'  me." 

a 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  REVEREND  HAROLD  BARHOLM. 

che  Reverend  Paul  entered  the  parlcr  at  the 
Rectory,  ae  found  that  his  friend  had  arrived  before  him. 
Mr.  Bar)  olm,  his  wife  and  Anice,  with  their  guest,  formed 
a  group  around  the  fire,  and  Grace  saw  at  a  glance  that 
Derrick  had  unconsciously  fallen  into  the  place  of  the 
centre  figure.  He  was  talking  and  the  others  were  listen 
ing — Mr.  Barholm  in  his  usual  restless  fashion,  Mrs.  Bar- 
holm  with  evident  interest,  Anice  leaning  forward  on  her 
ottoman,  listening  eagerly. 

"  Ah  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Barholm,  when  the  servant  an 
nounced  the  visitor,  "  this  is  fortunate.  Here  is  Grace. 
Glad  to  see  you,  Grace.  Take  a  seat.  We  are  talking 
about  an  uncommonly  interesting  case.  I  dare  say  you 
know  the  young  woman." 

Anice  looked  up. 

"  We  are  talking  about  Joan  Lowrie,"  she  said.  "  Mr. 
Derrick  is  telling  us  about  her." 

"  Most  interesting  affair — from  beginning  to  end," 
continued  the  Rector,  briskly.  "  Something  must  be  clone 
for  the  young  woman.  We  must  go  and  see  her, — I  will 
go  and  see  her  myself." 

He  had  caught  fire  at  once,  in  his  usual  inconsequent, 
self  -secure  style.  Ecclesiastical  patronage  would  certainly 
set  this  young  woman  right  at  once.  There  was  no  doubt 
of  that.  And  who  was  so  well  qualified  to  bestow  it  as 
himself  I 


THE  EEVEEEND  HAROLD  BARHOLM.  97 

"  Yes,  yes !  I  will  go  myself,"  he  said.  "  That  kind  of 
people  is  easily  managed,  when  once  one  understands 
them.  There  really  is  some  good  in  them,  after  all.  You 
see,  Giace,  it  is  as  I  have  told  you — only  understand  them, 
and  make  them  understand  you,  and  the  rest  is  easy." 

Derrick  glanced  from  father  to  daughter.  The  clear 
eyes  of  the  girl  rested  on  the  man  with  a  curious  expres 
sion. 

"  Do  you  think,"  she  said  quickly,  "  that  they  like  us  to 
go  and  see  them  in  that  sort  of  way,  papa  ?  Do  you 
think  it  is  wise  to  remind  them  that  we  know  more  than 
they  do,  and  that  if  they  want  to  learn  they  must  learn 
from  us,  just  because  we  have  been  more  fortunate  ?  It 
really  seems  to  me  that  the  rebellious  ones  would  ask  them 
selves  what  right  we  had  to  be  more  fortunate." 

"  My  dear,"  returned  the  Rector,  somewhat  testily — he 
was  not  partial  to  the  interposition  of  obstacles  even  in  sug 
gestion — "  My  dear,  if  you  had  been  brought  into  contact 
with  these  people  as  closely  as  I  have,  or  even  as  Grace 
has,  you  would  learn  that  they  are  not  prone  to  regard 
things  from  a  metaphysical  stand- point.  Metaphysics  are 
not  in  their  line.  They  are  more  apt  to  look  upon  life  as 
a  matter  of  bread  and  bacon  than  as  a  problem." 

A  shadow  fell  upon  Anice's  face,  and  before  the  visit 
ended,  Derrick  had  observed  its  presence  more  than  once. 
It  was  always  her  father  who  summoned  it,  he  noticed. 
And  yet  it  was  evident  enough  that  she  was  fond  of  the 
man,  and  in  no  ordinary  degree,  and  that  the  affection 
was  mutual.  As  he  was  contented  with  himself,  so  Bar- 
holm  was  contented  with  his  domestic  relations.  He  was 
fond  of  his  wife,  and  fond  of  his  daughter,  as  much, 
perhaps,  through  his  appreciation  of  his  cwn  good  taste  in 
wedding  such  a  wife,  and  becoming  the  father  of  such  a 


28  TEAT  LASS  a  LOWRI&S. 

daughter,  as  through  his  appreciation  of  their  peculiar 
charms.  He  was  proud  of  them  and  ind  ulgent  to  them. 
They  reflected  a  credit  on  him  of  which  he  felt  himself 
wholly  deserving. 

"  They  are  very  fond  of  him,"  remarked  Grace  after 
ward  to  his  friend ;  "  which  shows  that  there  must  be  a 
great  deal  of  virtue  in  the  man.  Indeed  there  is  a  great 
deal  of  virtue  in  him.  You  yourself,  Derrick,  must  have 
observed  a  certain  kindliness  and — and  open  generosity," 
with  a  wistful  sound  in  his  voice. 

There  was  always  this  wistful  appeal  in  the  young  man's 
tone  when  he  spoke  of  his  clerical  master — a  certain 
anxiety  to  make  the  best  of  him,  and  refrain  from  any 
suspicion  of  condemnation.  Derrick  was  always  reminded 
by  it  of  the  shadow  on  An  ice's  face. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  something."  Miss  Barholm  said  this 
evening  to  Grace  at  parting.  "  I  do  not  think  I  am  afraid 
of  Riggan  at  all.  I  think  I  shall  like  it  all  the  better 
because  it  is  so  new.  Everything  is  so  earnest  and  ener 
getic,  that  it  is  a  little  bracing — like  the  atmosphere.  Per 
haps — when  the  time  comes — I  could  do  something  to 
help  you  with  that  girl.  I  shall  try  at  any  rate."  She  held 
out  her  hand  to  him  with  a  smile,  and  the  Reverend  Paul 
went  home  feeling  not  a  little  comforted  and  en 
couraged. 

The  Rector  stood  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  his  portly 
person  expressing  intense  satisfaction. 

"  You  will  remind  me  about  that  young  woman  in  the 
morning,  Anice,"  he  said.  "  I  should  like  to  attend  to  the 
matter  myself.  Singular  that  Grace  should  not  have 
mentioned  her  before.  It  really  seems  to  me,  you  know, 
that  now  and  then  Grace  is  a  little  deficient  in  interest,  or 
energy." 


THE  REVEREND  HAROLD  BARHOLM.      29 

"  Surely  not  interest,  my  dear,"  suggested  Mrs.  Barholm, 
gently. 

"  Well,  well,"  conceded  the  Rector,  "  perhaps  not  inter 
est,  but  energy  or — or  appreciation.  I  should  have  seen 
such  a  fine  creature's  superiority,  and  mentioned  it  at 
once.  She  must  be  a  fine  creature.  A  young  woman  of 
that  kind  should  be  encouraged.  I  will  go  and  see  her  in 
the  morning — if  it  were  not  so  late  I  would  go  now. 
Eeally,  she  ought  to  be  told  that  she  has  exhibited  a  very 
excellent  spirit,  and  that  people  approve  of  it.  I  wonder 
what  sort  of  a  household  servant  she  would  make  if  she 
were  properly  trained  ?  " 

"  That  would  not  do  at  all,"  put  in  Anice  decisively. 
"  From  the  pit's  mouth  to  the  kitchen  would  not  be  a 
natural  transition." 

"  Well,  well,"  as  usual,  "  perhaps  you  are  right.  There 
is  plenty  of  time  to  think  of  it,  however.  We  can  judge 
better  when  we  have  seen  her." 

He  did  not  need  reminding  in  the  morning.  He  was  as 
full  of  vague  plans  for  Joan  Lowrie  when  he  arose  as 
he  had  been  when  he  went  to  bed.  He  came  down  to  the 
charming  breakfast-room  in  the  most  sanguine  of  moods. 
But  then  his  moods  usually  were  sanguine.  It  was 
scarcely  to  be  wondered  at.  Fortune  had  treated  him 
with  great  suavity  from  his  earliest  years.  Well-born, 
comfortably  trained,  healthy  and  easy-natured,  the  world 
had  always  turned  its  pleasant  side  to  him.  As  a  young 
man,  he  had  been  a  strong,  handsome  fellow,  whose  con 
venient  patrimony  had  placed  him  beyond  the  possibility 
of  entire  dependence  upon  his  prof ession.  When  a  curate 
he  had  been  well  enough  paid  and  without  private  respon 
sibilities  ;  when  he  married  he  was  lucky  enough  to  win 
a  woman  who  added  to  his  comfort ;  in  fact,  life  had  gone 


SO  THAT  LASS  W  LO WRIST 8. 

smoothly  with  him  for  so  long  that  he  had  no  reason  tft 
suspect  Fate  of  any  intention  to  treat  him  ill-naturedly. 
It  was  far  more  likely  that  she  would  reserve  her  scurvy 
tricks  for  some  one  else. 

Even  Riggan  had  not  perplexed  him  at  all.  Its  difficul 
ties  were  not  such  as  would  be  likely  to  disturb  him  greatly. 
One  found  ignorance,  and  vice,  and  discomfort  among  the 
lower  classes  always  ;  there  was  the  same  thing  to  contend 
against  in  the  agricultural  as  in  the  mining  districts.  And 
the  Rectory  was  substantial  and  comfortable,  even  pic 
turesque.  The  house  was  roomy,  the  garden  large  and 
capable  of  improvement ;  there  were  trees  in  abundance, 
ivy  on  the  walls,  and  Anice  would  do  the  rest.  The 
breakfast-room  looked  specially  encouraging  this  morn 
ing.  Anice,  in  a  pretty  pale  blue  gown,  and  with  a  few 
crocuses  at  her  throat,  awaited  his  coming  behind  the 
handsomest  of  silver  and  porcelain,  reading  his  favorite 
newspaper  the  while.  Her  little  pot  of  emigrant  violets 
exhaled  a  faint,  spring-like  odor  from  their  sunny  place 
«,t  the  window  ;  there  was  a  vase  of  crocuses,  snow-drops 
and  ivy  leaves  in  the  center  of  the  table  ;  there  was  sun 
shine  outside  and  comfort  in.  The  Rector  had  a  good 
appetite  and  an  unimpaired  digestion.  Anice  rose  when 
he  entered,  and  touched  the  bell. 

"Mamma's  headache  will  keep  her  upstairs  for  a 
while,"  she  said.  "  She  told  me  we  were  not  to  wait  for 
her."  And  then  she  brought  him  his  newspaper  and 
kissed  him  dutifully. 

"  Very  glad  to  see  you  home  again,  I  am  sure,  my 
dear,"  remarked  the  Rector.  "  I  have  really  missed  you 
very  much.  What  excellent  coffee  this  is  ! — another  cup, 
if  you  please."  And,  after  a  pause, 

"  I  think  really,  you  know,"  he  proceeded,  "  that  you 


TEE  REVEREND  HAROLD  BARHOLM.  31 

will  not  find  the  place  unpleasant,  after  all.  For  my  part, 
I  think  it  is  well  enough — for  such  a  place  ;  one  cannot 
expect  Belgravian  polish  in  Lancashire  miners,  and  cer 
tainly  one  does  not  meet  with  it ;  but  it  is  well  to  make 
the  best  of  things.  I  get  along  myself  reasonably  well 
with  the  people.  I  do  not  encounter  the  difficulties  Grace 
complains  of." 

"  Does  he  complain  ?  "  asked  Anice ;  "  I  did  not  think 
he  exactly  complained." 

"  Grace  is  too  easily  discouraged,"  answered  the  Rector 
in  off-handed  explanation.  "  And  he  is  apt  to  make  blun 
ders.  He  speaks  of,  and  to,  these  people  as  if  they  were 
of  the  same  fiber  as  himself.  He  does  not  take  hold  of 
things.  He  is  deficient  in  courage.  He  means  well,  but 
he  is  not  good  at  reading  character.  That  other  young 
fellow  now — Derrick,  the  engineer — would  do  twice  as 
well  in  his  place.  What  do  you  think  of  that  young  fellow, 
by  the  way,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  I  like  him,"  said  Anice.  "  He  will  help  Mr.  Grace 
often." 

"  Grace  needs  a  support  of  some  kind,"  returned  Mr. 
Barholm,  frowning  slightly,  "  and  he  does  not  seem  to 
rely  very  much  upon  me — not  so  much  as  I  would  wish. 
I  don't  quite  understand  him  at  times  ;  the  fact  is,  it  has 
struck  me  once  or  twice,  that  he  preferred  to  take  his  own 
path,  instead  of  following  mine." 

"  Papa,"  commented  Anice,  "  I  scarcely  think  he  is  to 
blame  for  that.  I  am  sure  it  is  always  best,  that  consci 
entious,  thinking  people — and  Mr.  Grace  is  a  thinking 
man — should  have  paths  of  their  own." 

Mr.  Barholm  pushed  his  hair  from  his  forehead.  His 
own  obstinacy  confronted  him  sometimes  through  Anice, 
in  a  finer,  more  bafiiing  form. 


32  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRIETS. 

"  Grace  is  a  young  man,  my  dear,"  he  said,  "  and — and 
not  a  very  strong-minded  one." 

"  I  cannot  believe  that  is  true,"  said  Anice.  "  I  do  not 
think  we  can  blame  his  mind.  It  is  his  body  that  is  not 
strong.  Mr.  Grace  himself  has  more  power  than  you  and 
mamma  and  myself  all  put  together." 

One  of  Anice's  peculiarities  was  a  certain  pretty  senten- 
tiousness,  which,  but  for  its  innate  refinement,  and  its 
sincerity,  might  have  impressed  people  as  being  a  fault. 
When  she  pushed  her  opposition  in  that  steady,  innocent 
way,  Mr.  Barholm  always  took  refuge  behind  an  inner 
consciousness  which  "  knew  better,"  and  was  fully  satisfied 
on  the  point  of  its  own  knowledge. 

When  breakfast  was  over,  he  rose  from  the  table  with 
the  air  of  a  man  who  had  business  on  hand.  Anice  rose 
too,  and  followed  him  to  the  hearth. 

"  You  are  going  out,  I  suppose,"  she  said. 

"  I  am  going  to  see  Joan  Lowrie,"  he  said  complacently. 
;t  And  1  have  several  calls  to  make  besides.  Shall  I  tell 
the  young  woman  that  you  will  call  on  her  ?  " 

Anice  looked  down  at  the  foot  she  had  placed  on  tlio 
shining  rim  of  the  steel  fender. 

"  Joan  Lowrie  ? "  she  said  reflectively. 

"  Certainly,  my  dear.  I  should  think  it  would  please 
the  girl  to  feel  that  we  are  interested  in  her." 

"  I  should  scarcely  think — from  what  Mr.  Grace  and 
his  friend  say — that  she  is  the  kind  of  a  girl  to  be  readied 
in  that  way,"  said  Anice. 

The  Rector  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  My  dear,"  he  answered,  "  if  we  are  always  to  depend 
upon  what  Grace  says,  we  shall  often  find  ourselves  in  a 
dilemma.  If  you  are  going  to  wait  until  these  collier 
young  women  call  on  you  after  the  manner  cf  polite 


THE  REVEREND  HAROLD  BARIIOLM.  33 

society,  I  am  afraid  you  will  have  time  to  lose  interest  in 
them  and  their  affairs." 

He  had  no  scruples  of  his  own  on  the  subject  of  hia 
errand.  He  felt  very  comfortable  as  usual,  as  he  wended 
liis  way  through  the  village  toward  Lowrie's  cottage,  on 
the  Knoll  Road.  He  did  not  ask  himself  what  he  should 
say  to  the  collier  young  woman,  and  her  unhappy  charge. 
Orthodox  phrases  with  various  distinct  flavors — the  flavor 
of  encouragement,  the  flavor  of  reproof,  the  flavor  of  con 
solation, — were  always  ready  with  the  man  ;  he  never 
found  it  necessary  to  prepare  them  before  hand.  The 
flavor  of  approval  was  to  be  Joan's  portion  this  morning ; 
the  flavor  of  rebuke  her  companion's.  He  passed  down 
the  street  with  ecclesiastical  dignity,  bestowing  a  curt,  but 
not  unamiable  word  of  recognition  here  and  there.  Un 
kempt,  dirty-faced  children,  playing  hop-scotch  or  mar 
bles  on  the  flag  pavement,  looked  up  at  him  with  a  species 
of  awe,  not  unmingled  with  secret  resentment ;  women 
lounging  on  door-steps,  holding  babies  on  their  hips, 
6tared  in  critical  sullenness  as  he  went  by. 

"Theer's  th'  owd  parson,"  commented  one  sharp- 
tongued  matron.  "  Hoo's  goin'  to  teach  some  one  summat 
I  warrant.  What  th'  owd  lad  dunnot  know  is  na  worth 
knowin'.  Eh  !  hoo's  a  graidely  foo',  that  hoo  is.  Our 
Tommy,  if  tha  dost  na  let  Jane  Ann  be,  tha'lt  be  gettin' 
a  hidin'." 

Unprepossessing  as  most  of  the  colliers'  homes  were, 
Lowrie's  cottage  was  a  trifle  less  inviting  than  the  major 
ity.  It  stood  upon  the  roadside,  an  ug.ly  little  bare  place, 
with  a  look  of  stubborn  desolation,  i*-s  only  redeeming 
feature  a  certain  rough  cleanliness.  The  same  cleanliness 
reigned  inside,  Barholm  observed  when  he  entered ;  and 
yet  on  the  whole  there  was  a  stamp  upon  it  which  made 


34  THAT  LASS  0  LOWRI&S. 

it  a  place  scarcely  to  be  approved  of.  Before  the  low 
fire  sat  a  girl  with  a  child  on  her  kuee,  and  this  girl, 
hearing  the  visitor's  footsteps,  got  up  hurriedly,  and  met 
him  with  a  half  abashed,  half  frightened  look  on  her  pale 
face. 

"  Lowrie  is  na  here,  an'  neyther  is  Joan,"  she  said,  with 
oat  waiting  for  him  to  speak.     "  Both  on  'em's  at  th'  pit. 
Theer's  no  one  here  but  me,"  and  she  held  the  baby  over 
her  shoulder,  as  if  she  would  like  to  have  hidden  it. 

Mr.  Barholm  walked  in  serenely,  sure  that  he  ought  to 
be  welcome,  if  he  were  not. 

"At  the  pit,  are  they?  "he  answered.  "Dear  me!  I 
might  have  remembered  that  they  would  be  at  this  time. 
"Well,  well ;  I  will  take  a  seat,  my  girl,  and  talk  to  you  a 
little.  I  suppose  you  know  me,  the  minister  at  the 
church — Mr.  Barholm." 

Liz,  a  slender  slip  of  a  creature,  large-eyed,  and  woe 
begone,  stood  up  before  him,  staring  at  him  irresolutely 
as  he  seated  himself. 

"  I — I  dunnot  know  nobody  much  now,"  she  stammered. 
"  I — I've  been  away  fro'  Eiggan  sin'  afore  yo'  conm — if 
yo're  th'  new  parson,"  and  then  she  colored  nervously  and 
became  fearfully  conscious  of  her  miserable  little  burden. 
"  I've  heerd  Joan  speak  o'  th'  young  parson,"  she  faltered. 

Her  visitor  looked  at  her  gravely.  What  a  helpless, 
childish  creature  she  was,  with  her  pretty  face,  and  her 
baby,  and  her  characterless,  frightened  way.  She  was 
only  one  of  many — poor  Liz,  ignorant,  emotional,  weak, 
easily  led,  ready  to  err,  unable  to  bear  the  consequences 
of  error,  not  strong  enough  to  be  resolutely  wicked,  not 
strong  enough  to  be  anything  in  particular,  but  that  which 
her  surroundings  made  her.  If  she  had  been  well-born 
and  well  brought  up,  she  would  have  been  a  pretty, 


THE  REVEREND  HAROLD  BARIIOLM.  35 

insipid  girl  who  neeaed  to  be  taken  care  of ;  as  it  was; 
she  had  "gone  wrong."  The  excellent  Hector  of  St. 
Michael's  felt  that  she  must  be  awakened. 

"  You  are  the  girl  Elizabeth  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I'm  'Lizabeth  Barnes,"  she  answered,  pulling  at  the 
hem  of  her  child's  small  gown,  "  but  folks  nivver  calls 
me  nowt  but  Liz." 

Her  visitor  pointed  to  a  chair  considerately.  "  Sit 
down,"  he  said,  "I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

Liz  obeyed  him  ;  but  her  pretty,  weak  face  told  its  own 
story  of  distaste  and  hysterical  shrinking.  She  let  the 
baby  lie  upon  her  lap  ;  her  fingers  were  busy  plaiting  up 
folds  of  the  little  go wn. 

O 

"  I  dunnot  want  to  be  talked  to,"  she  whimpered.  "  1 
dunnot  know  as  talk  can  do  folk  as  is  i*  trouble  any  good 
— an'  th'  trouble's  bad  enow  wi'out  talk." 

"We  must  remember  whence  the  trouble  comes," 
answered  the  minister, "  and  if  the  root  lies  in  ourselves, 
and  springs  from  our  own  sin,  we  must  bear  our  cross 
meekly,  and  carry  our  sorrows  and  iniquities  to  the  foun 
tain  head.  We  must  ask  for  grace,  and — and  sanctifica- 
tion  of  spirit." 

"  I  dunnot  know  nowt  about  th'  fountain  head,"  sobbed 
Liz  aggrieved.  "  I  amna  religious  an'  I  canna  see  as  such 
loike  helps  foak.  No  Methody  nivver  did  nowt  for  me 
when  I  war  i'  trouble  an'  want.  Joan  Lowrie  is  na  a 
Methody." 

"  If  you  mean  that  the  young  woman  is  in  an  un- 
awakeued  condition,  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,"  with  increased 
gravity  of  demeanor.  "'Without  the  redeeming  blood 
how  are  we  to  find  peace?  If  you  had  clung  to  the 
Cross  you  would  have  been  spared  all  this  sin  and  shame. 
You  must  know,  my  girl,  that  this,"  with  a  motion 


3G  THAT  LASS  &  LOWRI&8. 

toward  the  frail  creature  on  her  knee,  "is  a  very  terrible 
thing." 

Liz  burfct  into  piteous  sobs — crying  like  an  abused 
child : 

"  I  know  it's  hard  enow,"  she  cried  ;  "  I  canna  get  work 
neyther  at  th'  pit  nor  at  th'  factories,  as  long  as  I  niun 
drag  it  about,  an'  1  ha'  not  got  a  place  to  lay  my  head, 
on'y  this.  If  it  wur  na  for  Joan,  I  might  starve  and  the 
choild  too.  But  I'm  noan  so  bad  as  yo'd  niak'  out.  I — I 
wur  very  fond  o'  him — I  wur,  an'  I  thowt  he  wur  fond  o' 
me,  an'  he  wur  a  gentleman  too.  He  were  110  laboring- 
man,  an  he  wur  kind  to  me,  until  he  got  tired.  Them 
sort  all  us  gets  tired  o'  yo'  i'  time,  Joan  says.  I  wish  I'd 
ha'  towd  Joan  at  first,  an'  axed  her  what  to  do." 

Barholm  passed  his  hand  through  his  hair  uneasily.  This 
shallow,  inconsequent  creature  baffled  him.  Her  shame, 
her  grief,  her  misery,  were  all  mere  straws  eddying  on  the 
pool  of  her  discomfort.  It  was  not  her  sin  that  crushed 
her,  it  was  the  consequence  of  it ;  hers  wras  not  a  sorrow,  it 
was  a  petulant  unhappiness.  If  her  lot  had  been  prosper 
ous  outwardly,  she  would  have  felt  no  inward  pang. 

It  became  more  evident  to  him  than  ever  that  something 
must  be  done,  and  he  applied  himself  to  his  task  of  reform 
to  the  best  of  his  ability.  But  he  exhausted  his  reper 
tory  of  sonorous  phrases  in  vain.  His  grave  exhortations 
only  called  forth  fresh  tears,  and  a  new  element  of  resent 
ment  ;  and,  to  crown  all,  his  visit  terminated  with  a  dis 
couragement  of  which  his  philosophy  had  never  dreamed. 

In  the  midst  of  his  most  eloquent  reproof,  a  shadow 
darkened  the  threshold,  and  as  Liz  looked  up  with  the  ex 
planation — "  Joan !  "  a  young  woman,  in  pit  girl  guise, 
came  in,  her  hat  pushed  off  her  forehead,  her  throat  bare, 
her  fustian  jacket  hanging  over  her  arm.  She  glanced 


THE  REVEREND  HAROLD  BARUOUf.      37 

from  one  to  the  other  questioning! y,  knitting  her  brows 
slightly  at  the  sight  of  Liz's  tears.  In  answer  to  her  glance 
Liz  spoke  querulously. 

"  It's  th'  parson,  Joan,"  she  said.  "  He  comn  to  talk 
like  th  rest  on  'em  an'  he  maks  me  out  too  ill  to  burn." 

Just  at  that  moment  the  child  set  up  a  fretful  cry  and 
Joan  crossed  the  room  and  took  it  up  in  her  arms. 

"  Yo've  feart  th'  choild  betwixt  yo',"  she  said,  "  if  yo've 
managed  to  do  nowt  else." 

"  I  felt  it  my  duty  as  Rector  of  the  parish,"  explained 
Earholm  somewhat  curtly,  "  I  felt  it  my  duty  as  Rector 
of  the  parish,  to  endeavor  to  bring  your  friend  to  a  proper 
sense  of  her  position." 

Joan  turned  toward  him. 

ulias  tha  done  it  ?"  she  asked. 

The  Reverend  Harold  felt  his  enthusiasm  concerning 
the  young  woman  dying  out. 

"  I — I — "  he  stammered. 

Joan  interrupted  him, 

"  Dost  tha  see  as  tha  has  done  her  any  good  ? "  she  de 
manded.  "  I  dunnot  mysen." 

"  I  have  endeavored  to  the  best  of  my  ability  to  improve 
her  mental  condition,"  the  minister  replied. 

"  I  thowt  as  much,"  said  Joan  ;  "  I.  mak'  no  doubt  tha'st 
done  thy  best,  neyther.  Happen  tha'st  gi'en  her  what 
comfort  tha  had  to  spare,  but  if  yo'd  been  wiser  than  yo' 
are,  yo'd  ha'  let  her  alone.  I'll  warrant  theer  is  na  a  par 
son  'twixt  here  an'  Lunnon,  that  could  na  ha'  towd  her 
that  she's  a  sinner  an'  has  shame  to  bear ;  but  happen 
theer  is  na  a  parson  'twixt  here  an'  Lunnon  as  she  could 
na  ha'  towd  that  much  to,  hersen.  Howivver,  as  tha  haa 
said  thy  say,  happen  it  '11  do  yo'  fur  this  toime,  an'  yo'  can 
let  her  be  for  a  while." 


38  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRI&S. 

Mr.  Barholm  was  unusually  silent  during  dinner  that 
evening,  and  as  he  sat  over  his  wine,  his  dissatisfaction 
rose  to  the  surface,  as  it  invariably  did. 

"  I  am  rather  disturbed  this  evening,  Anice,"  he  said. 

Anice  looked  up  questioningly. 

"  Why  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  went  to  see  Joan  Lowrie  this  morning,"  he  answered 
hesitatingly,  u  and  I  am  very  much  disappointed  in  her. 
I  scarcely  think,  after  all,  that  I  would  advise  you  to  take 
her  in  hand.  She  is  not  an  amiable  young  woman.  In 
fact  there  is  a  positive  touch  of  the  vixen  about  her." 


CHAPTEK  IV. 

"LOVE   ME,    LOVE    MY   DOG." 

MR.  BAKHOLM  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  turning  to 
Anice  for  it,  when  he  required  information  concerning 
people  and  things.  In  her  desultory  pilgrimages,  Anice 
saw  all  that  he  missed,  and  heard  much  that  he  was  deaf 
to.  The  rough,  hard-faced  men  and  boisterous  girls  who 
passed  to  and  from  their  work  at  the  mine,  drew  her  to  the 
window  whenever  they  made  their  appearance.  She  longed 
to  know  something  definite  of  them — to  get  a  little  nearer 
to  their  unprepossessing  life.  Sometimes  the  men  and 
women,  passing,  caught  glimpses  of  her,  and,  asking  each 
other  who  she  was,  decided  upon  her  relationship  to  the 
family. 

"  IIoo's  th'  owd  parson's  lass,"  somebody  said.  "  Hoo's 
noan  so  bad  lookin'  neyther,  if  hoo  was  na  sich  a  bit  o'  a 
thing." 

The  people  who  had  regarded  Mr.  Barholm  with  a 
spice  of  disfavor,  still  could  not  look  with  ill-nature  upon 
this  pretty  girl.  The  slatternly  women  nudged  each 
other  as  she  passed,  and  the  playing  children  stared  after 
their  usual  fashion  ;  but  even  the  hardest-natured  matron 
could  find  nothing  more  condemnatory  to  say  than, 
"  Hoo's  noan  Lancashire,  that's  plain  as  th'  nose  on  a 
body's  face  ;  "  or,  "  Theer  is  na  much  on  her,  at  ony  rate. 
Hoo's  a  bit  of  a  weakly-like  lass  wi'out  much  blood  i* 
her." 


40  THAT  LASS  O>  LOW.RI&S. 

Now  and  then  Anice  caught  the  sound  of  their  words, 
but  she  was  used  to  being  commented  upon.  She  had 
learned  that  people  whose  lives  have  a  great  deal  of  hard, 
common  discomfort  and  struggle,  acquire  a  tendency  to 
depreciation  almost  as  a  second  nature.  It  is  easier  to  bear 
one's  own  misfortunes,  than  to  bear  the  good-fortune  of 
better-used  people.  That  is  the  insult  added  by  Fate  to 
injury. 

Riggan  was  a  crooked,  rambling,  cross-grained  little 
place.  From  the  one  wide  street  with  its  jumble  of  old, 
tumble-down  shops,  and  glaring  new  ones,  branched  out 
narrow,  up-hill  or  down-hill  thoroughfares,  edged  by 
colliers'  houses,  with  an  occasional  tiny  provision  shop, 
where  bread  and  bacon  were  ranged  alongside  potatoes 
and  flabby  cabbages ;  ornithological  specimens  made  of 
pale  sweet  cake,  and  adorned  with  startling  black  currant 
eyes,  rested  unsteadily  against  the  window-pane,  a  sore 
temptation  to  the  juvenile  populace. 

It  was  in  one  of  these  side  streets  that  Anice  met  with 
her  first  adventure. 

Turning  the  corner,  she  heard  the  sharp  yelp  of  a  dog 
among  a  group  of  children,  followed  almost  immediately 
by  a  ringing  of  loud,  angry,  boyish  voices,  a  sound  of 
blows  and  cries,  and  a  violent  scuffle.  Anice  paused  for 
a  few  seconds,  looking  over  the  heads  of  the  excited  little 
crowd,  and  then  made  her  way  to  it,  and  in  a  minute  was 
in  the  heart  of  it.  The  two  boys  who  were  the  principal 
figures,  were  fighting  frantically,  scuffling,  kicking,  biting, 
and  laying  on  vigorous  blows,  with  not  unscientific  fists. 
Now  and  then  a  fierce,  red,  boyish  face  was  to  be  seen, 
and  then  the  rough  head  ducked  and  the  fight  waxed 
fiercer  and  hotter,  while  the  dog — a  small,  shrewd .  sharp- 
nosed  terrier — barked  at  the  combatants'  heels,  snapping 


"LOVE  ME,  LOVE  MY  DOG."  44 

at  one  pair,  but  not  at  the  other,  and  plainly  enjoying  the 
excitement. 

"  Boys !  "  cried  Anice.     "  What's  the  matter  I " 

"  They're  feighten,"  remarked  a  philosophical  young 
by-stander,  with  placid  interest, — "  an'  Jud  Bates  '11  win." 

It  was  so  astonishing  a  thing  that  any  outsider  should 
think  of  interfering,  and  there  was  something  so  decided 
in  the  girlish  voice  addressing  them,  that  almost  at  the 
moment  the  combatants  fell  back,  panting  heavily, 
breathing  vengeance  in  true  boy  fashion,  and  evidently 
resenting  the  unexpected  intrusion. 

"  What  is  it  all  about?  "  demanded  the  girl.   "  Tell  me." 

The  crowd  gathered  close  around  her  to  stare,  the  terrier 
sat  down  breathless,  his  red  tongue  hanging  out,  his  tail 
beating  the  ground.  One  of  the  boys  was  his  master,  it 
was  plain  at  a  glance,  and,  as  a  natural  consequence,  the 
dog  had  felt  it  his  duty  to  assist  to  the  full  extent  of 
his  powers.  But  the  other  boy  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Why  could  na  he  let  me  a-be  then  ?  "  he  asked  irate 
ly.  "  I  was  na  doin'  owt  t'  him." 

"  Yea,  tha  was,"  retorted  his  opponent,  a  sturdy,  ragged, 
ten-year-old. 

"Nay,  I  wasna." 

"  Yea,  tha  was." 

"  Well,"  said  Anice,  "what  was  he  doing?  " 

"  Aye,"  cried  the  first  youngster,  "  tha  tell  her  if  tha 
con.  Who  hit  th'  first  punse  ?  "  excitedly  doubling  his 
fist  again.  "Ididna." 

"Nay,  tha  didna,  but  tha  did  summat  else.  Thapunsed 
at  Nib  wi'  thy  clog,  an'  hit  him  aside  o'  th'  yed,  an'  then 
I  punsed  thee,  an'  I'd  do  it  agen  fur — " 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  said  Anice,  holding  up  her  little 
gloved  hand.  "  Who  is  Nib  ? " 


42  THAT  LASS  0'  LO WRIST 8. 

"  Nib's  my  dog,"  surlily.  "  An'  them  as  punses  him, 
has  getten  to  punse  me." 

Anice  bent  down  and  patted  the  small  animal. 

"  He  seems  a  very  nice  dog,"  she  said.  "  What  did  you 
kick  him  for  ?  " 

Nib's  master  was  somewhat  mollified.  A  person  who 
could  appreciate  the  virtues  of  "  th'  best  tarrier  i'  Rig- 
gan,"  could  not  be  regarded  wholly  with  contempt,  or 
even  indifference. 

"  He  kicked  him  fur  nowt,"  he  answered.  "  He's  allua 
at  uther  him  or  me.  He  bust  my  kite,  an'  he  cribbed  my 
marvels,  didn't  he  ?  "  appealing  to  the  bystanders. 

"  Aye,  he  did.  I  seed  him  crib  th'  marvels  mysen. 
He  wur  mad  'cos  Jnd  wur  winnen,  and  then  he  kicked 
Nib." 

Jud  bent  down  to  pat  Nib  himself,  not  without  a  touch 
of  pride  in  his  manifold  injuries,  and  the  readiness  with 
which  they  were  attested. 

"  Aye,"  he  said,  "  an'  I  did  na  set  on  him  at  first  ney- 
ther.  I  nivver  set  on  him  till  he  punsed  Nib.  He  may 
bust  my  kite,  an'  steal  my  marvels,  an'  he  may  ca'  me  ill 
names,  but  he  shanna  kick  Nib.  So  theer !  " 

It  was  evident  that  Nib's  enemy  was  the  transgressor. 
He  was  grievously  in  the  minority.  Nobody  seemed  to 
Bide  with  him,  and  everybody  seemed  ready — when  onco 
the  tongues  were  loosed — to  say  a  word  for  Jud  and  "  th' 
best  tarrier  i'  Riggan."  For  a  few  minutes  Anice  could 
scarcely  make  herself  heard. 

"  You  are  a  good  boy  to  take  care  of  your  dog,"she  said 
to  Jud — "  and  though  fighting  is  not  a  good  thing,  per 
haps  if  I  had  been  a  boy,"  gravely  deciding  against  morai 
suasion  in  one  rapid  glance  at  the  enemy — "  perhaps  if  I 
had  been  a  boy,  I  would  have  fought  myself.  You  are  a 


"LOVE  ME,   LOVE  MY  DOG."  43 

coward,"  she  added,  with  incisive  scorn  to  the  other  lad, 
who  slinked  sulkily  out  of  sight. 

"Owd  Sammy  Craddock,"  lounging  at  his  window,  clay 
pipe  in  hand,  watched  Anice  as  she  walked  away,  and 
gave  vent  to  his  feelings  in  a  shrewd  chuckle. 

"  Eh  !  eh !  "  he  commented  ;  "  so  that's  th'  owd  parson's 
lass,  is  it  ?  Wall,  hoo  may  be  o'  th'  same  mate,  but  hoo  is 
na  o'  th'  same  grain,  I'll  warrant.  IIoo's  a  rare  un,  hoo  is, 
fur  a  wench." 

"  Owd  Sammy's  "  amused  chuckles,  and  exclamations  of 
"  Eh  !  hoo's  a  rare  un — that  hoo  is — fur  a  wench,"  at  last 
drew  his  wife's  attention.  The  good  woman  pounced  up 
on  him  sharply. 

"Tha'rt  an  owd  yommer-head,"  she  said.  "What  art 
tha  ramblin'  about  now?  Who  is  it  as  is  siccan  a  rare 
un  ? " 

Owd  Sammy  burst  into  a  fresh  chuckle,  rubbing  hig 
knees  with  both  hands. 

"  Why,"  said  lie,  "  I'll  warrant  tha  could  na  guess  i'  tha 
tried,  but  I'll  gi'e  thee  a  try.  Who  dost  tha  think  wur 
out  i'  th'  street  just  now  i'  th'  thick  of  a  foight  among  th' 
lads?  I  know  thou'st  nivver  guess." 

"  Nay,  happen  I  canna,  an'  1  dun  not  know  as  I  care  sc 
much,  neyther,"  testily. 

"  Why,"  slapping  his  knee,  "  th'  owd  parson's  lass.  A 
little  wench  not  much  higher  nor  thy  waist,  an'  wi'  a  bit 
o1  a  face  loike  skim-milk,  but  steady  and  full  o'  pluck  as 
an  owd  un." 

"  Nay  now,  tha  dost  na  say  so  ?  What  wor  she  doin'  an 
bow  did  she  come  theer  ?  Tha  mun  ha'  been  drearnin' !  " 

"  Nowt  o'  tli'  soart.  I  seed  her  as  plain  as  I  see  thee, 
an'  heerd  ivvery  word  she  said.  Tha  shouldst  ha'  seen 
her  1  Hoo  med  as  if  hoo'd  lived  wi'  lads  aw  her  days. 


44  THAT  LASS  0'  LO  WRIST 8. 

Jud  Bates  and  that  young  marplot  o'  Thorme's  wur  f  eightin 
about  Nib — at  it  tooth  and  nail — an'  th'  lass  sees  'em,  an' 
marches  into  th'  thick,  an'  sets  'em  to  reets.  Yo'  should 
ha'  seen  her !  An'  hoo  tells  Jud  as  he's  a  good  lad  to  tak' 
care  o'  his  dog,  an'  hoo  does  na  know  but  what  hoo'd  a 
fowt  hersen  i'  his  place,  an  hoo  ca's  Jack  Thorme  a  cow 
ard,  an'  turns  her  back  on  him,  an'  ends  up  wi'  tellin'  Jud 
to  bring  th'  tarrier  to  th'  Rectory  to  see  her." 

"  Well,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Craddock,  "  did  yo'  ivver  hear 
th'  loike ! " 

"  I  wish  th'  owd  parson  had  seed  her,"  chuckled  his 
spouse  irreverently.  "  That  soart  is  na  i'  his  loine.  He'd 
a  waved  his  stick  as  if  he'd  been  'king  and  council  i'  one, 
an'  rated  'em  fro'  th'  top  round  o'  th'  ladder.  He  canna 
get  down  fro'  his  perch.  Th'  owd  lad'll  stick  theer  till  he 
gets  a  bit  too  heavy,  an'  then  he'll  coom  down  wi'  a  crash, 
ladder  an'  aw' — but  th'  lass  is  a  different  mak'." 

Sammy  being  an  oracle  among  his  associates,  new-comers 
usually  passed  through  his  hands,  and  were  condemned, 
or  approved,  by  him.  His  pipe,  and  his  criticisms  upon 
society  in  general,  provided  him  with  occupation.  Too 
old  to  fight  and  work,  he  was  too  shrewd  to  be  ignored. 
Where  he  could  not  make  himself  felt,  he  could  make 
himself  heard.  Accordingly,  when  he  condescended  to 
inform  a  select  and  confidential  audience  that  the  "  owd 
parson's  lass  was  a  rare  un,  lass  as  she  was " — (the  mas 
culine  opinion  of  Riggan  on  the  subject  of  the  weaker  sex 
was  a  rather  disparaging  one) — the  chances  of  the  Rec 
tor's  daughter  began,  so  to  speak,  to  "  look  up."  If  Sam 
my  Craddock  found  virtue  in  the  new-comer,  it  was 
possible  such  virtue  might  exist,  at  least  in  a  negative 
form, — and  open  enmity  was  rendered  unnecessary,  and 
even  impolitic.  A  faint  interest  began  to  be  awakened. 


"LOVE  ME,  LOVE  MY  DOG."  45 

When  Airice  passed  through  the  streets,  the  slatternly, 
baby-laden  women  looked  at  her  curiously,  and  in  a  man 
ner  not  absolutely  unfriendly.  She  might  not  be  so  bad 
after  all,  if  she  did  have  "  Lunnon  ways,"  and  was  si  tiled 
upon  by  Fortune.  At  any  rate,  she  differed  fron  the 
parson  himself,  which  was  in  her  favor* 


CHAPTER  Y 

OUTSIDE   THE   HEDGE. 

DEEPLY  as  AiJce  was  interested  in  Joan,  she  left  her  tc 
herself.  She  did  not  go  to  see  her,  and  still  more  wisely, 
she  managed  to  hush  in  her  father  any  awakening  tendency 
toward  parochial  visits.  Bat  from  Grace  and  Fergus 
Derrick  she  heard  much  of  her,  and  through  Grace  she 
contrived  to  convey  work  and  help  to  Liz,  and  encourage 
ment  to  her  protectress.  From  what  source  the  assist 
ance  came,  Joan  did  not  know,  and  she  was  not  prone  to 
ask  questions. 

"  If  she  asks,  tell  her  it  is  from  a  girl  like  herself," 
Anice  had  said,  and  Joan  had  accepted  the  explanation. 

In  a  very  short  time  from  the  date  of  their  first  ac 
quaintance,  Fergus  Derrick's  position  in  the  Barholm 
household  had  become  established.  He  was  the  man  to 
make  friends  and  keep  them.  Mrs.  Barholm  grew  fond 
of  him ;  the  Rector  regarded  him  as  an  acquisition  to 
their  circle,  and  Anice  was  his  firm  friend.  So,  being 
free  to  come  and  go,  he  came  and  went,  and  found  his 
unceremonious  visits  pleasant  enough.  On  his  arrival  at 
Riggan,  he  had  not  anticipated  meeting  with  any  such 
opportunities  of  enjoyment.  He  had  come  to  do  hard 
work,  and  had  expected  a  hard  life,  softened  by  few 
social  graces.  The  work  of  opening  the  new  mines  was  a 
heavy  one,  and  was  rendered  additionally  heavy  and 
dangerous  by  unforeseen  circumstances.  A  load  of 


OUTSIDE  THE  HEDGE.  47 

responsibility  rested  upon  his  shoulders,  to  which  at  times 
he  felt  himself  barely  equal,  and  which  men  of  less  tough 
fiber  would  have  been  glad  to  shift  upon  others.  Natu 
rally,  his  daily  cares  made  his  hours  of  relaxation  all  the 
more  pleasant.  Mrs.  Barholm's  influence  upon  him  was 
a  gentle  and  soothing  one,  and  in  Anice  he  found  a  sub 
tle  inspiration.  She  seemed  to  understand  his  trials  by 
instinct,  and  even  the  minutiae  of  his  work  made  them 
selves  curiously  clear  to  her.  As  to  the  people  who  were 
under  his  control,  she  was  never  tired  of  hearing  of  them, 
and  of  studying  their  quaint,  rough  ways.  To  please  her 
he  stored  up  many  a  characteristic  incident,  and  it  was 
through  him  that  she  heard  most  frequently  of  Joan. 
She  did  .riot  even  see  Joan  for  fully  two  months  after  her 
arrival  in  Riggan,  and  then  it  was  Joan  who  came  to  her. 
As  the  weather  became  more  spring-like  she  was 
oftener  out  in  the  garden.  She  found  a  great  deal  to  dc 
among  the  flower-beds  and  shrubbery,  and  as  this  hao. 
always  been  considered  her  department,  she  took  the  man 
agement  of  affairs  wholly  into  her  own  hands.  The  old  place, 
which  had  been  rather  neglected  in  the  time  of  the  pre 
vious  inhabitant,  began  to  bloom  out  into  fragrant  luxuri 
ance,  and  passing  Rigganites  regarded  it  with  admiring 
eyes.  The  colliers  who  had  noticed  her  at  the  window  in 
the  colder  weather,  seeing  her  so  frequently  irom  a  nearer 
point  of  view,  felt  themselves  on  more  familiar  terms. 
Some  of  them  even  took  a  sort  of  liking  to  her,  and  gave 
her  an  uncouth  greeting  as  they  went  by ;  and,  more 
than  once,  one  or  another  of  them  had  paused  to  ask  for 
a  flower  or  two,  and  had  received  them  with  a  curious 
bashful  awe,  when  they  had  been  passed  over  the  holly 
hedge. 

Having  gone   out  one  evening  after  dinner  to  gather 


48  THAT  LASS  0'  LQWBIffS. 

flowers  for  the  house,  Anice,  standing  before  a  high  lilac 
bush,  and  pulling  its  pale  purple  tassels,  became  suddenly 
conscious  that  some  one  was  watching  her— some  one 
standing  upon  the  roadside  behind  the  holly  hedge.  She 
did  not  know  that  as  she  stopped  here  and  there  to  fill  her 
basket,  she  had  been  singing  to  herself  in  a  low  tone. 
Her  voice  had  attracted  the  passer-by. 

This  passer-by — a  tall  pit  girl  with  a  handsome,  resolute 
face — stood  behind  the  dark  green  hedge,  and  watched 
her.  Perhaps  to  this  girl,  weary  with  her  day's  labor, 
grimed  with  coal-dust,  it  was  not  unlike  standing  outside 
paradise.  Early  in  the  year  as  it  was,  there  were  flowers 
enough  in  the  beds,  and  among  the  shrubs,  to  make  the 
spring  air  fresh  with  a  faint,  sweet  odor.  But  here  too 
was  Anice  in  her  soft  white  merino  dress,  with  her  basket 
of  flowers,  with  the  blue  bells  at  her  belt,  and  her  half 
audible  song.  She  struck  Joan  Lowrie  with  a  new  sense 
,  f  beauty  and  purity.  As  she  watched  her  she  grew  dis 
contented — restless — sore  at  heart.  She  could  not  have 
told  why,  but  she  felt  a  certain  anger  against  herself. 
She  had  had  a  hard  day.  Things  had  gone  wrong  at  the 
pit's  mouth ;  things  had  gone  wrong  at  home.  It  was 
hard  for  her  strong  nature  to  bear  with  Liz's  weakness. 
Her  path  was  never  smooth,  but  to-day  it  had  been  at  its 
roughest.  The  little  song  fell  upon  her  ear  with  strong 
pathos. 

"  She's  inside  o'  th'  hedge,"  she  said  to  herself  in  a  dull 
voice.  "  I'm  outside,  theer's  th'  difference.  It  a'most 
looks  loike  the  hedge  went  aw'  around  an'  she'd  been  born 
among  th'  flowers,  and  theer's  no  way  out  for  her — no 
more  than  theer's  a  way  in  fur  me." 

Then  it  was  that  Anice  turned  round  and  saw  her. 
Their  eyes  met,  and,  singularly  enough,  Anice's  first 


THEN    IT    WAS    TIIAT    AMCE    TTKNED    AUOUND    AND    SAW    HEU. 


OUTSIDE  THE  HEDGE.  49 

thought  was  that  this  was  Joan.  Derrick's  description 
made  her  sure.  There  were  not  two  such  women  in  Rig- 
gan.  She  made  her  decision  in  a  moment.  She  stepped 
across  the  grass  to  the  hedge  with  a  ready  smile. 

u  You  were  looking  at  my  flowers,"  she  said.  "Will 
you  have  some? " 

Joan  hesitated. 

"  I  often  give  them  to  people."  said  Anice,  taking  a 
handful  from  the  basket  and  offering  them  to  her  across 
the  holly.  "  When  the  men  come  home  from  the  mines 
they  often  ask  me  for  two  or  three,  and  I  think  they  like 
them  even  better  than  I  do — though  that  is  saying  a  great 
deal." 

Joan  held  out  her  hand,  and  took  the  flowers,  holding 
them  awkwardly,  but  with  tenderness. 

"  Oh,  thank  yo',"  she  said.  "  It's  kind  o'  yo'  to  gi'  'em 
away." 

"  It's  a  pleasure  to  me,"  said  Anice,  picking  out  a  deli 
cate  pink  hyacinth.  "  Here's  a  hyacinth."  Then  as  Joan 
took  it  their  eyes  met.  "  Are  you  Joan  Lowrie  ? "  asked 
the  girl. 

Joan  lifted  her  head. 

"  Aye,"  she  answered,  "I'm  Joan  Lowrie." 

"  Ah,"  said  Anice,  "  then  I  am  very  glad." 

They  stood  on  the  same  level  from  that  moment. 
Something  as  indescribable  as  all  else  in  her  manner,  had 
done  for  Anice  just  what  she  had  simply  and  seriously 
desired  to  do.  Proud  and  stubborn  as  her  nature  was, 
Joan  was  subdued.  The  girl's  air  and  speech  were  like 
her  song.  She  stood  inside  the  hedge  still,  in  her  white 
dress,  among  the  flowers,  looking  just  as  much  as  if  she 
had  been  born  there  as  ever,  but  some  fine  part  of  her  had 

crossed  the  boundary. 
8 


50  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRIE'S. 

"  Ah  !  then  I  am  glad  of  that,"  she  said. 

"TV  are. very  good  to  say  as  much,"  she  answered, 
"  but  I  dunnot  know  as  I  quite  understand — 

Anice  drew  a  little  nearer. 

"  Mr.  Grace  has  told  me  about  you,"  she  said.  "  And 
Mr.  Derrick." 

Joan's  brown  throat  raised  itself  a  trifle,  and  Anice 
thought  color  showed  itself  on  her  cheek. 

"  Both  on  'em's  been  good  to  me,"  she  said,  "  but  I  did 
na  think  as — 

Anice  stopped  her  with  a  little  gesture. 

"  It  was  you  who  were  so  kind  to  Liz  when  she  had  no 
friend,"  she  began. 

Joan  interrupted  her  with  sudden  eagerness. 

"  It  wur  yo'  as  sent  th'  work  an'  th'  things  fur  th'  choild," 
she  said. 

"  Yes,  it  was  I,"  answered  Anice.  "  But  I  hardly  knew 
what  to  send.  I  hope  I  sent  the  right  things,  did  I? " 

"  Yes,  miss ;  thank  yo'."  And  then  in  a  lower  voice, 
"  They  wur  a  power  o'  help  to  Liz  an'  me.  Liz  wur  hard 
beset  then,  an'  she's  only  a  young  thing  as  canna  bear  sore 
trouble.  Seemed  loike  that  th'  thowt  as  some  un  had 
helped  her  wur  a  comfort  to  her." 

Anice  took  courage. 

"  Perhaps  if  I  might  come  and  see  her,"  she  said. 
"  May  1  come  ?  I  should  like  to  see  the  baby.  I  am  very 
fond  of  little  children." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  and  then  Joan  spoke  awk 
wardly. 

"  Do  yo'  know — happen  yo'  dunnot — what  Liz's  trouble 
is  ?  Bein'  as  yo're  so  young  yorsen,  happen  they  did  na 
tell  yo'  all.  Most  o'  toimes  folk  is  na  apt  to  be  fond  o'  such 
loike  as  this  little  un  o'  hers." 


OUTSIDE  THE  HEDGE.  51 

« I  heard  all  the  story." 

"Then  come  if  yo'  loike, — an'  if  they'll  let  yo',  some 
nd  think  there  war  harm  i'  th'  choild's  touch.  I'm  glad 
vo'  dunna." 

* 

She  did  not  linger  much  longer.  Anice  watched  her 
till  she  was  out  of  sight.  An  imposing  figure  she  was — 
moving  down  the  road  in  her  rough  masculine  garb— th< 
massive  perfection  of  her  form  clearly  outlined  against 
the  light.  It  seemed  impossible  that  such  a  flower  as  thia 
could  blossom,  and  decay,  and  die  out  in  such  a  life,  with 
out  any  higher  fruition. 

"  I  have  seen  Joan  Lowrie,"  said  Anice  to  Derrick, 
when  next  they  met. 

"  Did  she  come  to  you,  or  did  you  go  to  her  ?  "  Fergus 
asked. 

"  She  came  to  me,  but  without  knowing  that  she  was 
coming." 

u  That  was  best,"  was  his  comment. 

Joan  Lowrie  was  as  much  a  puzzle  to  him  as  she  was  to 
other  people.  Despite  the  fact  that  he  saw  her  every 
day  of  his  life,  he  had  never  found  it  possible  to  advance 
a  step  with  her.  She  held  herself  aloof  from  him,  just  as 
she  held  herself  aloof  from  the  rest.  A  common  greeting, 
and  oftener  than  not,  a  silent  one,  was  all  that  passed 
between  them.  Try  as  he  would,  he  could  get  no  farther ; 
— and  he  certainly  did  make  some  effort.  Now  and  then 
he  found  the  chance  to  do  her  a  good  turn,  and  such 
opportunities  he  never  let  slip,  though  his  way  of  doing 
such  thirgs  was  always  so  quiet  as  to  be  unlikely  to 
attract  any  observation.  Usually  he  made  his  way  with 
people  easily,  but  this  girl  held  him  at  a  distance,  almost 
ungraciously.  And  he  did  not  like  to  be  beaten.  Who 
does  1  So  lie  persevered  with  a  shade  of  stubbornness, 


52  THAT  LA88  0'  LOWRIWS. 

hidden  under  a  net- work  of  other  motives.  O:.  ce,  when 
he  had  exerted  himself  to  lighten  her  labor  somewhat,  she 
set  aside  his  assistance  openly. 

"  Theer's  others  as  needs  help  more  nor  me,"  she  said 
«  Help  them,  an'  I'll  thank  yo'." 

In  course  of  time,  however,  he  accidentally  discovered 
that  there  had  been  occasions  when,  notwithstanding  her 
apparent  ungraciousness,  she  had  exerted  her  influence  in 
his  behalf. 

The  older  colliers  resented  his  youth,  the  younger  ones 
his  authority.  The  fact  that  he  was  "  noan  Lancashire  " 
worked  against  him  too,  though  even  if  he  had  been 
a  Lancashire  man,  he  would  not  have  been  likely  to  tind 
over-much  favor.  It  was  enough  that  he  was  "  one  o'  tli* 
mesters."  To  have  been  weak  of  will,  or  vacillating  of 
purpose,  would  have  been  death  to  every  vestige  of  the 
authority  vested  in  him ;  but  he  was  as  strong  mentally 
as  physically — strong-willed  to  the  verge  of  stubbornness. 
But  if  they  could  not  frighten  or  subdue  him,  they  could 
still  oppose  and  irritate  him,  and  the  contention  was  ob 
stinate.  This  feeling  even  influenced  the  girls  and  women 
at  the  "  mouth."  They,  too,  organized  in  petty  rebellion, 
annoying  if  not  powerful , 

"  I  think  yo'  will  find  as  yo'  may  as  well  leave  th' 
engineer  be,"  Joan  would  say  dryly.  "  Yo'  will  na  fear 
him  much,  an'  yo'll  tire  yo'rsens  wi'  yo're  clatter.  I 
donna  see  the  good  o'  barkin'  so  much  when  yo'  canna 
bite." 

"  Aye,"  jeered  one  of  the  boldest,  once,  "  leave  th' 
engineer  be.  Joan  sets  a  power  o'  store  by  th'  engineer." 

There  was  a  shout  of  laughter,  but  it  died  out  when 
Joan  confronted  the  speaker  with  dangerous  steadinesi 
of  gaze. 


OUTSIDE  THE  HEDGE.  53 

"  Save  thy  breath  to  cool  thy  porridge/'  she  said.  "  It 
will  be  better  for  thee." 

But  it  was  neither  the  first  nor  the  last  time  that  her 
companions  flung  out  a  jeer  at  her  "  sweetheartin'."  The 
shrewdest  among  them  had  observed  Derrick's  interest  in 
her.  They  concluded,  of  course,  that  Joan's  handsome 
face  had  won  her  a  sweetheart.  They  could  not  accuse 
her  of  encouraging  him ;  but  they  could  profess  to  believe 
that  she  was  softening,  and  they  could  use  the  insinuation 
as  a  sharp  weapon  against  her,  when  such  a  course  was  not 
too  hazardous. 

Of  this,  Derrick  knew  nothing.  He  could  only  see 
that  Joan  set  her  face  persistently  against  his  attempts  to 
make  friends  with  her,  and  the  recognition  of  this  fact 
almost  exasperated  him  at  times.  It  was  quite  natural 
that,  seeing  so  much  of  this  handsome  creature,  and  hear 
ing  so  much  of  her,  his  admiration  should  not  die  out,  and 
that  opposition  should  rather  invite  him  to  stronger  efforts 
to  reach  her. 

So  it  was  that  hearing  Miss  Barholm's  story  he  fell  intc 
unconscious  reverie.  Of  course  this  did  not  last  long. 
He  was  roused  from  it  by  the  fact  that  Anice  was  looking 
at  him.  When  he  looked  up,  it  seemed  as  if  she  awakened 
also,  though  she  did  not  start. 

"  How  are  you  getting  on  at  the  mines  ? "  she  asked. 

"  Badly.  Or,  at  least,  by  no  means  well.  The  men 
are  growing  harder  to  deal  with  every  day." 

"  And  your  plans  about  the  fans  ?  " 

The  substitution  of  the  mechanical  fan  for  the  old 
furnace  at  the  base  of  the  shaft,  was  one  of  the  projects 
to  which  Derrick  clung  most  tenaciously.  During  a 
two  years'  sojourn  among  the  Belgian  mines,  he  had 
studied  the  system  earnestly.  He  had  worked  hard  to 


54:  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRIE'S. 

introduce  it  at  Riggan,  and  meant  to  work  still  harder 
But  the  miners  were  bitterly  opposed  to  anything  "  new 
f angled,"  and  the  owners  were  careless.  So  that  the 
mines  were  worked,  and  their  profits  made,  it  did  not 
matter  for  the  rest.  They  were  used  to  casualties,  so  well 
used  to  them  in  fact,  that  unless  a  fearful  loss  of  life 
occurred,  they  were  not  alarmed  or  even  roused.  As  to 
the  injuries  done  to  a  man's  health,  and  so  on — they 
had  not  time  to  inquire  into  such  things.  There  was 
danger  in  all  trades,  for  the  matter  of  that.  Fergus 
Derrick  was  a  young  man,  and  young  men  were  fond  of 
novelties. 

Opposition  was  bad  enough,  but  indifference  wa&  far 
more-  baffling.  The  colliers  opposed  Derrick  to  the  utmost, 
the  company  was  rather  inclined  to  ignore  him — some  mem 
bers  good-naturedly,  others  with  an  air  of  superiority,  not 
unmixed  with  contempt.  The  colliers  talked  with  rough 
ill-nature ;  the  Company  did  riot  want  to  talk  at  all. 

"  Oh,"  answered  Derrick,  "  1  do  not  see  that  I  have 
made  one  step  forward ;  but  it  will  go  hard  with  me 
before  I  am  beaten.  Some  of  the  men  1  have  to  deal  with 
are  as  bat-blind  as  they  are  cantankerous.  One  would 
think  that  experience  might  have  taught  them  wisdom. 
Would  you  believe  that  some  of  those  working  in  the  most 
dangerous  parts  of  the  mine  have  false  keys  to  their  Davys, 
and  use  the  flame  to  light  their  pipes  ?  I  have  heard  of  the 
thing  being  done  before,  but  I  only  discovered  the  other  day 
that  we  had  such  madmen  in  the  pits  here.  If  I  could 
only  be  sure  of  them  I  would  settle  the  matter  at  once, 
but  they  are  crafty  enough  to  keep  their  secret,  and  it 
only  drifts  to  the  master  as  a  rumcr." 

"  Have  you  no  suspicion  as  to  who  they  are  ? "  asked 
Anice. 


OUTSIDE  THE  HEDGE.  55 

"  I  suspect  one  man,"  he  answered,  "  but  only  suspect 
him  because  he  is  a  bad  fellow,  reckless  in  all  things,  and 
always  ready  to  break  the  rules.  I  suspect  Dan  Lowrie." 

"  Joan's  father  ? J1  exclaimed  Anice  in  distress. 

Derrick  made  a  gesture  of  assent. 

"  He  is  the  worst  man  in  the  mines,"  he  said.  "  The 
man  with  the  worst  influence,  the  man  who  can  work  best 
if  he  will,  the  man  whose  feeling  against  any  authority  is 
the  strongest,  and  whose  feeling  against  me  amounts  to 
bitter  enmity." 

' '  Against  you  ?     But  why  ?  " 

"  1  suppose  because  I  have  no  liking  for  him  myself, 
and  because  I  will  have  orders  obeyed,  whether  they  are 
my  orders  or  the  orders  of  the  owners.  I  will  have  work 
done  as  it  should  be  done,  and  I  will  not  be  frightened  by 
bullies." 

"  But  if  he  is  a  dangerous  man — ". 

"  He  would  knock  me  down  from  behind,  or  spoil  my 
beauty  with  vitriol  as  coolly  as  he  would  toss  off  a  pint  of 
beer,  if  he  had  the  opportunity,  and  chanced  to  feel 
vicious  enough  at  the  time,"  said  Derrick.  "  But  his 
mood  has  not  quite  come  to  that  yet.  Just  now  he  feels 
that  he  would  like  to  have  a  row, — and  really,  if  we  could 
have  a  row,  it  would  be  the  best  thing  for  us  both.  If 
one  of  us  could  thrash  the  other  at  the  outset,  it  might 
never  come  to  the  vitriol." 

He  was  cool  enough  himself,  and  spoke  in  quite  a 
matter-of-fact  way,  but  Anice  suddenly  lost  her  color. 
When,  later,  she  bade  him  good-night — 

"  I  am  afraid  of  that  man,"  she  said,  as  he  held  her 
hand  for  the  moment.  "  Don't  let  him  harm  you." 

"  What  man  ? "  asked  Derrick.  "  Is  it  possible  you  are 
thinking  about  what  I  said  of  Lowrie  \  " 


56  THAT  LASS  0'  LO  WRI&8. 

"  Yes.  It  is  so  horrible.  I  cannot  bear  the  thought  of 
it.  I  am  not  used  to  hear  of  such  things.  I  am  afraid 
for  you." 

"  You  are  very  good,"  he  said,  his  strong  hand  return 
ing  her  grasp  with  warm  gratitude.  "  But  I  am  sorry  I 
said  so  much,  if  I  have  frightened  you.  I  ought  to  have 
remembered  how  new  such  things  were  to  you.  It  is  noth 
ing,  I  assure  you."  And  bidding  her  good-night  again, 
he  went  away  quite  warmed  at  heart  by  her  innocent 
interest  in  him,  but  blaming  himself  not  a  little  for  his 
indiscretion. 


CHAPTER  YI. 

JOAN   AND   THE    CHILD. 

To  the  young  curate's  great  wonder,  on  his  first  visit  to 
her  after  the  advent  of  Liz  and  her  child,  Joan  changed 
her  manner  towards  him.  She  did  not  attempt  to  repel 
him,  she  even  bade  him  welcome  in  a  way  of  her  own. 
Deep  in  Joan's  heart  was  hidden  a  fancy  that  perhaps  the 
work  of  this  young  fellow  who  was  "  good  enow  fur  a  par 
son,"  lay  with  such  as  Liz,  and  those  who  like  Liz  bore 
a  heavy  burden. 

"  If  yo'  can  do  her  any  good,"  she  said,  "  come  and 
welcome.  Come  every  day.  I  dunnot  know  much  about 
such  like  mysen,  but  happen  yo'  ha'  a  way  o'  helpin'  folk 
as  canna  help  theirsens  i'  trouble — an'  Liz  is  one  on  'em/' 

Truly  Liz  was  one  of  these.  She  clung  to  Joan  in  a 
hopeless,  childish  way,  as  her  only  comfort.  She  could 
do  nothing  for  herself,  she  could  only  obey  Joan's  dic 
tates,  and  this  she  did  in  listless  misery.  When  she  had 
work  to  do,  she  made  weak  efforts  at  doing  it,  and  when 
she  had  none  she  sat  and  held  the  child  upon  her  knee, 
her  eyes  following  her  friend  with  a  vague  appeal.  The 
discomfort  of  her  lot,  the  wretchedness  of  corning  back  to 
shame  and  jeers,  after  a  brief  season  of  pleasure  and  lux 
ury,  was  what  crushed  her.  So  long  as  her  lover  had  cared 
for  her,  and  she  had  felt  no  fear  of  hunger  or  cold,  or  deser 
tion,  she  had  been  happy — happy  because  she  could  be  idle 


58  THAT  LASS  0"  LOWRISTS. 

and  take  no  thought  for  the  morrow,  and  was  almost  a  lady. 
13  ut  now  all  that  was  over.  She  had  come  to  the  bitter 
dregs  of  the  cup.  She  was  thrown  on  her  own  resources, 
nobody  cared  for  her,  nobody  helped  her  but  Joan,  no 
body  called  her  pretty  and  praised  her  ways.  She  was  not 
to  be  a  lady  after  all,  she  must  work  for  her  living  and  it 
must  be  a  poor  one  too.  There  would  be  no  fine  clothes,  no 
nice  rooms,  no  flattery  and  sugar-pin ms.  Everything  would 
be  even  far  harder,  and  more  unpleasant  than  it  had  been 
before.  Arid  then,  the  baby  ?  What  could  she  do  with  it  ? — 
a  creature  more  helpless  than  herself,  always  to  be  clothed 
and  taken  care  of,  when  she  could  not  take  care  of  herself, 
always  in  the  way,  always  crying  and  wailing  and  troubling 
day  and  night.  She  almost  blamed  the  baby  for  every 
thing.  Perhaps  she  would  not  have  lost  her  lover  if  it  had 
not  been  for  the  baby.  Perhaps  he  knew  what  a  trouble 
it  would  be,  and  wanted  to  be  rid  of  her  before  it  came, 
and  that  was  why  he  had  gone  away.  The  night  Joan  had 
brought  her  home  she  had  taken  care  of  the  child,  and 
told  Liz  to  'sit  down  and  rest,  and  had  sat  down  herself 
with  tlue  small  creature  in  her  arms,  and  after  watching 
her  for  a  while,  Liz  had  broken  out  into  sobs,  and  slipped 
down  upon  the  floor  at  her  feet,  hiding  her  wretched, 
pretty  face  upon  her  friend's  knee. 

"  I  canna  abide  the  sight  o'  it,"  she  cried.  "  I  canna  see 
what  it  wur  born  fur,  mysen.  I  wish  I'd  deed  when  I  wur 
i'  Lunnon — when  he  cared  fur  me.  He  wor  fond  enow  o' 
me  at  th'  first.  He  could  na  abide  me  to  be  out  o'  his 
Bight.  I  nivver  wur  so  happy  i'  my  life  as  I  wur  then. 
Aye!  I  did  na  think  then,  as  th'  toime  ud  come  when  he'd 
cast  me  out  i'  th'  road.  He  had  no  reet  to  do  it,"  her  voice 
rising  hysterically.  "  He  had  no  reet  to  do  it,  if  he  wur 
a  gentleman ;  but  it  seems  gentlefolk  can  do  owt  they 


JOAN  AND   THE  CHILD.  59 

please.  If  he  did  na  mean  to  stick  to  me,  wiry  could  na 
he  ha'  let  me  a-be." 

"  That  is  na  gentlefolks'  way,"  said  J6an  bitterly,  "  but 
if  I  wur  i'  yo're  place,  Liz,  I  would  na  hate  th'  choild.  It 
has  na  done  yo'  as  much  harm  as  yo'  ha  done  it." 

After  a  while,  when  the  girl  was  quieter,  Joan  asked  her 
a  question. 

"  You  nivver  told  me  who  yo'  went  away  wi',  Liz,"  she 
said.  "  I  ha'  a  reason  fur  wantin'  to  know,  or  1  would  na 
ax,  but  fur  a'  that  if  yo'  dun  not  want  to  tell  me,  yo'  need 
na  do  it  against  yo're  will." 

Liz  was  silent  a  moment. 

"  I  would  na  tell  ivverybody,"  she  said.  "  I  would  na 
tell  nobody  but  yo'.  It  would  na  do  no  good,  an'  I  dun- 
not  care  to  do  harm.  Yo'll  keep  it  to  yo'rsen,  if  I  tell  yo', 
Joan  ? " 

"  Aye,"  Joan  answered,  "  as  long  as  it  needs  be  kept  to 
mysen.  I  am  na  one  to  clatter." 

"  Well,"  said  Liz  with  a  sob,  "  it  wur  Mester  Landsell  I 
went  wi' — young  Mester  Landsell — Mester  Ralph." 

"  I  tliout  as  much,"  said  Joan,  her  face  darkening. 

She  had  had  her  suspicions  from  the  first,  when  Mr. 
Ralph  Landsell  had  come  to  Riggan  with  his  father,  who 
vvas  one  of  the  mining  company.  He  was  a  graceful, 
fair-faced  young  fellow,  with  an  open  hand  and  the  air  of 
a  potentate,  and  his  grandeur  had  pleased  Liz.  She  was 
not  used  to  flattery  and "  fine  London  ways,"  and  her 
vanity  made  her  an  easy  victim. 

"  He  wur  allus  after  me,"  she  said,  with  fresh  tears. 
"  He  nivver  let  me  be  till  I  promised  to  go.  He  said  ho 
would  make  a  lady  o'  me  an'  he  wur  allus  givin'  me 
things.  He  wur  fond  o'  me  at  first, — that  he  wur, — an'  I 
wur  fond  o'  him.  I  nivver  seed  no  one  loike  him  afore, 


60  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRIE'S. 

Oh  !  it's  hard,  it  is. — Oh  !  it's  bitter  hard  an'  cruel,  as  it 
should  come  to  this." 

And  she  wailed  and  sobbed  until  she  wore  herself  out, 
and  wearied  Joan  to  the  very  soul. 

But  Joan  bore  with  her  and  never  showed  impatience 
by  word  or  deed.  Childish  petulances  and  plaints  fell 
upon  her  like  water  upon  a  rock — but  now  and  then  the 
strong  nature  was  rasped  beyond  endurance  by  the  weak 
one.  She  had  taken  no  small  task  upon  herself  when  she 
gave  Liz  her  word  that  she  would  shield  her.  Only  after 
a  while,  in  a  few  weeks,  a  new  influence  began  to  work 
upon  Liz's  protectress.  The  child  for  whom  there  seemed 
no  place  in  the  world,  or  in  any  pitying  heart — the  child 
for  whom  Liz  felt  nothing  but  vague  dislike  and  resent 
ment — the  child  laid  its  light  but  powerful  hand  upon  Joan. 
Once  or  twice  she  noticed  as  she  moved  about  the  room 
that  the  little  creature's  eyes  would  follow  her  in  a  way 
something  like  its  mother's,  as  if  with  appeal  to  her 
superior  strength.  She  fell  gradually  into  the  habit  of 
giving  it  more  attention.  It  was  so  little  and  light,  so 
easily  taken  from  Liz's  careless  hold  when  it  was  restless, 
so  easily  carried  to  and  fro,  as  she  went  about  her 
household  tasks.  She  had  never  known  much  about 
babies  until  chance  had  thrown  this  one  in  her  path  ;  it 
was  a  great  novelty.  It  liked  her  strong  arms,  and  Liz 
was  always  ready  to  give  it  up  to  her,  feeling  only  a  weak 
bewilderment  at  her  fancy  for  it.  When  ehe  was  at  home 
it  was  rarely  out  of  her  arms.  It  was  no  source  of  weari 
ness  to  her  perfect  strength.  She  carried  it  Lere  and 
there,  she  cradled  it  upon  her  knees,  when  she  sat  down 
by  the  fire  to  rest ;  she  learned  in  time  a  hundred  gentle 
woman's  ways  through  its  presence.  Her  step  became 
lighter,  her  voice  softer — a  heavy  tread,  or  a  harsh  tone 


JOAN  AND  THE  CHILD.  61 

might  waken  the  child.  For  the  child's  sake  she  doffed 
her  uncouth  working-dress  when  she  entered  the  house ; 
for  the  child's  sake  she  made  an  effort  to  brighten  tlie 
dullness,  and  soften  the  roughness  of  their  surroundings. 

The  Reverend  Paul,  in  his  visits  to  the  house,  observed 
with  tremor,  the  subtle  changes  wrought  in  her.  Catch 
ing  at  the  straw  of  her  negative  welcome,  he  went  to  see 
Liz  whenever  he  could  find  a  tangible  excuse.  He  had  a 
sensitive  dread  cf  intruding  even  upon  the  poor  privacy 
of  the  "  lower  orders,"  and  he  could  rarely  bring  himself 
to  the  point  of  taking  them  by  storm  as  a  mere  matter 
of  ecclesiastical  routine.  But  the  oftener  he  saw  Joan 
Lowrie,  the  more  heavily  she  lay  upon  his  mind.  Every 
day  his  conscience  smote  him  more  sorely  for  his  want  of 
success  with  her.  And  yet  how  could  he  make  way 
against  her  indifference.  He  even  felt  himself  a  trine 
spell-bound  in  her  presence.  He  often  found  himself 
watching  her  as  she  moved  to  and  fro; — watching  her  as 
Liz  and  the  child  did. 

But  "  th'  parson"  was  "th'  parson  "  to  her  still.  A 
good-natured,  simple  little  fellow,  who  might  be  a  trifle 
better  than  other  folks,  but  who  certainly  seemed  weaker; 
a  frail  little  gentleman  in  spectacles,  who  was  afraid  of 
her,  or  was  at  least  easily  confounded  ;  who  might  be  of 
use  to  Liz,  but  who  was  not  in  her  line, — better  in  his  way 
than  his  master  in  his  ;  but  still  a  person  to  be  regarded 
with  just  a  touch  of  contempt. 

The  confidence  established  between  Grace  and  hia 
friend  Fergus  Derrick,  leading  to  the  discussion  of  all 
matters  connected  with  the  parish  and  parishioners,  led 
naturally  to  the  frequent  discussion  of  Joan  Lowrie 
among  the  rest.  Over  tea  and  toast  in  the  small  parlor 
the  two  men  often  drew  comfort  fx'om  each  other.  When 


62  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRltfS. 

Derrick  strode  into  the  little  place  and  threw  himself 
into  his  favorite  chair,  with  knit  brows  and  weary  irrita 
tion  in  his  air,  Grace  was  always  ready  to  detect  his 
mood,  and  wait  for  him  to  reveal  himself ;  or  when  Grace 
looked  up  at  his  friend's  entrance  with  a  heavy,  pained 
look  on  his  face,  Derrick  was  equally  quick  to  compre 
hend.  There  was  one  trouble  in  which  Derrick  specially 
sympathized  with  his  friend.  This  was  in  his  feeling  for 
A  nice. 

Duty  called  Paul  frequently  to  the  house,  and  his 
position  with  regard  to  its  inhabitants  was  necessarily 
familiar.  Mr.  Barholm  did  not  spare  his  curate  ;  he  was 
ready  to  delegate  to  him  all  labor  in  which  he  was  not 
specially  interested  himself,  or  which  he  regarded  as 
scarcely  worthy  of  his  mettle. 

'•  Grace  makes  himself  very  useful  in  some  cases,"  he 
would  say ;  "  a  certain  kind  of  work  suits  him,  and  he  is 
able  to  do  himself  justice  in  it.  He  is  a  worthy  enough 
young  fellow  in  a  certain  groove,  but  it  is  always  best  to 
confine  him  to  that  groove." 

So,  when  there  was  an  ordinary  sermon  to  be  preached, 
or  a  commonplace  piece  of  work  to  be  done,  it  was  handed 
over  to  Grace,  with  a  few  tolerant  words  of  advice  or  com 
ment,  and  as  commonplace  work  was  rather  the  rule  than 
the  exception,  the  Reverend  Paul's  life  was  not  idle. 
Anice's  manner  toward  her  father's  curate  was  so  gentle 
and  earnest,  so  frank  and  full  of  trust  in  him,  that  it 
was  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  each  day  only  fixed  her 
more  firmly  in  his  heart.  Nothing  of  his  conscientious 
labor  was  lost  upon  her ;  nothing  of  his  self-sacrifice  and 
trial  was  passed  by  indifferently  in  her  thoughts  of  him ; 
his  pain  and  his  effort  went  to  her  very  heart  Her  belief 
in  him  was  so  strong  that  she  never  hesitated  to  carry  any 


JOAN  A^D  THE  CHILD.  63 

little  bewilderment  to  him  or  to  speak  to  him  openly  upon 
any  subject.  Small  marvel,  that  he  found  it  delicious 
pain  to  go  to  the  house  day  after  day,  feeling  himself  sc 
near  to  her,  yet  knowing  himself  so  far  from  any  hope  of 
reaching  the  sealed  chamber  of  her  heart. 

Notwithstanding  her  knowledge  of  her  inability  to  alter 
his  position,  Anice  still  managed  to  exert  some  slight  influ 
ence  over  her  friend's  fate. 

"  Do  you  not  think,  papa,  that  Mr.  Grace  has  a  great 
deal  to  do  ? "  she  suggested  once,  when  he  was  specially 
overburdened. 

"  A  great  deal  to  do  \ "  he  said.  "  Well,  he  has  enough 
to  do,  of  course,  my  dear,  but  then  it  is  work  of  a  kind 
that  suits  him.  I  never  leave  anything  very  important  to 
Grace.  You  do  not  mean,  my  dear,  that  you  fancy  he 
has  too  much  to  do  ? " 

"Rather  too  much  of  a  dull  kind,"  answered  Anice. 
"Dull  work  is  tiring,  and  he  has  a  great  deal  of  it  on  his 
hands.  All  that  school  work,  you  know,  papa — if  you 
could  share  it  with  him,  I  should  think  it  would  muke  it 
easier  for  him." 

"  My  dear  Anice,"  the  rector  protested  ;  "  if  Grace  had 
my  responsibilities  to  carry  on  his  shoulders, — but  I  do 
not  leave  my  responsibilities  to  him.  In  my  opinion  he  is 
hardly  fitted  to  bear  them — they  are  not  in  his  line  ; "  but 
seeing  a  dubious  look  on  the  delicate  face  opposite  him — 
"  but  if  you  think  the  young  fellow  has  really  too  much  to 
do,  I  will  try  to  take  some  of  these  minor  matters  upon 
myself.  I  am  equal  to  a  good  deal  of  hard  work," — evi 
dently  feeling  himself  somewhat  aggrieved. 

But  Anice  made  no  further  comment ;  having  dropped 
a  seed  of  suggestion,  she  left  it  to  fructify,  experience 
teaching  her  that  this  was  her  best  plan.  It  was  one  of 


64  THAT  LASS  0'  LO  WRISTS. 

the  good  rector's  weaknesses,  to  dislike  to  find  his  coarse 
disapproved  even  by  a  wholly  uninfluential  critic,  and  his 
daughter  was  by  no  means  an  uninfluential  critic.  He 
was  never  exactly  comfortable  when  her  views  did  not 
strictly  accord  with  his  own.  To  find  that  Ai-ice  was 
regarding  a  favorite  whim  with  questioning,  was  for 
him  to  begin  to  falter  a  trifle  inwardly,  however  testily- 
rebellious  he  might  feel.  He  was  a  man  who  thrived 
under  encouragement,  and  sank  at  once  before  failure; 
failure  was  unpleasant,  and  he  rarely  contended  long 
against  unpleasantness ;  it  was  not  a  "  fair  wind  and  no 
favor  "  with  him,  he  wanted  both  the  fair  wind  and  the 
favor,  and  if  either  failed  him  he  felt  himself  rather  badly 
used.  So  it  was,  through  this  discreetly  exerted  influence 
of  Anice's,  that  Grace,  to  his  surprise,  found  some  irk 
some  tasks  taken  from  his  shoulders  at  this  time.  He  did 
not  know  that  it;  was  Anice  he  had  to  thank  for  the  tem 
porary  relief. 


CHAPTER  Yli. 

ANICE   AT   THE   COTTAGE. 

ANICE  went  to  see  Liz.  Perhaps  if  the  truth  were  told, 
she  went  to  see  Joan  more  than  to  visit  Joan's  protegee^ 
though  her  interest  extended  from  the  one  to  the  other. 
But  she  did  not  see  Joan,  she  only  heard  of  her.  Liz 
met  her  visitor  without  any  manifestations  of  enthusiasm. 
She  was  grateful,  but  gratitude  was  not  often  a  powerful 
emotion  with  her.  But  Anice  began  to  attract  her  somewhat 
before  she  had  been  in  the  house  ten  minutes.  Liz  found, 
first,  that  she  was  not  one  of  the  enemy,  and  did  not  come 
to  read  a  homily  to  her  concerning  her  sins  and  transgres 
sions  ;  having  her  mind  set  at  ease  thus  far,  she  found 
time  to  be  interested  in  her.  Pier  visitor's  beauty,  her 
prettiness  of  toilet,  a  certain  delicate  grace  of  presence, 
were  all  virtues  in  Liz's  eyes.  She  was  so  fond  of  pretty 
things  herself,  she  had  been  wont  to  feel  such  pleasure 
and  pride  in  her  own  beauty,  that  such  outward  charms 
were  the  strongest  of  charms  to  her.  She  forgot  to  be 
abashed  and  miserable,  when,  after  talking  a  few  minutes, 
Anice  came  to  her  and  bent  over  the  child  as  it  lay  on 
her  knee.  She  even  had  the  courage  tc  regard  the  mate 
rial  of  her  dress  with  some  degree  of  interest. 

"  Yo'n  getten  that  theer  i'  Lunnon,"  she  ventured,  wist 
fully  touching  the  pretty  silk  with  her  finger.  "  Theer'e 
noan  sich  i'  Riggan." 


66  THAT  LASS  a  LOWRIE'S. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Anice,  letting  the  baby's  Laud  cling 
to  her  fingers.  "  I  bought  it  in  London." 

Liz  touched  it  again,  and  this  time  the  wistfulness  in 
her  touch  crept  up  to  her  eyes,  mingled  with  a  little  fret- 
fulness. 

"  Ivverything's  fine  as  comes  fro'  Lunnon,"  she  said. 
"  It's  the  grandest  place  i'  th'  world.  I  dunnot  wonder 
as  th'  queen  lives  theer.  I  wur  happy  aw  th'  toime  I 
wur  theer.  T  nivver  were  so  happy  i'  my  life.  I — I  can- 
na  hardly  bear  to  think  on  it, — it  gi'es  me  such  a  wearyin' 
an'  longin' ;  I  wish  I  could  go  back,  I  do  " — ending  with 
a  sob. 

"  Don't  think  about  it  any  more  than  you  can  help," 
said  Anice  gently.  "  It  is  very  hard  I  know  ;  don't  cry, 
Liz." 

"  I  canna  help  it,"  sobbed  Liz  ;  "  an'  I  can  no  more 
help  thinkin'  on  it,  than  th'  choild  theer  can  help  thinkin' 
on  its  milk.  I'm  liuugerin'  aw  th'  toime — an'  I  dunnot 
care  to  live ;  I  wakken  up  i'  th'  noight  hungerin'  an'  cry- 
in'  fur — fur  what  I  ha'  not  got.  an'  nivver  shall  ha'  a^en." 

O         7  O 

The  tears  ran  down  her  cheeks  and  she  whimpered  like 
a  child.  The  sight  of  the  silk  dress  had  brought  back  to 
her  mind  her  lost  bit  of  paradise  as  nothing  else  would 
have  done — her  own  small  store  of  finery,  the  gayety  and 
novelty  of  London  sounds  and  sights. 

Anice  knelt  down  upon  the  nagged  floor,  still  holding 
the  child's  hand. 

"  Don't  cry,"  she  said  again.  "  Look  at  the  baby,  Liz. 
It  is  a  pretty  baby.  Perhaps  if  it  lives,  it  may  be  a 
comfort  to  you  some  day." 

"  Nay !  it  wunnot ;  "  said  Liz,  regarding  it  resentfully. 
"I  nivver  could  tak'  no  comfort  in  it.  It's  nowt  but  a 
trouble.  I  dunnot  loike  it.  I  canna.  It  would  be  bettei 


ANICE  AT  THE  COTTAGE.  67 

if  it  would  na  live.  I  canna  tell  wheer  Joan  Lowrie  gets 
her  patience  fro'.  I  ha'  no  patience  with  the  little  marred 
thing  mysen — allus  whimperiii'  an'  cryin' ;  I  dunnot  know 
what  to  do  wi'  it  half  th'  toime." 

A  nice  took  it  from  her  lap,  and  sitting  down  uj  DI\  a 
]ow  wooden  stool,  held  it  gently,  looking  at  its  small  round 
face.  It  was  a  pretty  little  creature,  pretty  with  Liz's 
own  beauty,  or  at  least,  with  the  baby  promise  of  it. 
Amce  stooped  and  kissed  it,  her  heart  stirred  by  the 
feebly-strong  clasp  of  the  tiny  fingers. 

During  the  remainder  of  her  visit,  she  sat  holding  the 
child  on  her  knee,  and  talking  to  it  as  well  as  to  its  mother. 
But  she  made  no  attempt  to  bring  Liz  to  what  Mr.  Bar- 
holm  had  called,  "  a  fitting  sense  of  her  condition."  She 
was  not  fully  settled  in  ber  opinion  as  to  what  Liz's 
"  fitting  sense  "  would  be.  So  she  simply  made  an  effort 
to  please  her,  and  awaken  her  to  interest,  and  she  suc 
ceeded  very  well.  When  she  went  away,  the  girl  was 
evidently  sorry  to  see  her  go. 

"  I  dunnot  often  want  to  see  folk  twice,"  she  said,  look 
ing  at  her  shyly,  "  but  I'd  loike  to  see  yo'.  Yo're  not 
loike  th'  rest.  Yo'  dunnot  harry  me  wi'  talk.  Joan  said 
yo*  would  na." 

"  I  will  come  again,"  said  Anice. 

During  her  visit,  Liz  had  told  her  much  of  Joan.  She 
seemed  to  like  to  talk  of  her,  and  certainly  Anice  had 
been  quite  ready  to  listen. 

"  She  is  na  easy  to  mak'  out,"  said  Liz,  uan' p'r'aps 
that's  th'  reason  why  folks  puts  theirsens  to  so  much 
trouble  to  mak'  her  out." 

When  he  passed  the  cottage  on  the  Knoll  .Road  in  going 
home  at  night,  Fergus  could  not  help  looking  out  for 
Joan.  Sometimes  he  saw  her,  and  sometimes  he  did  not 


6S  THAT  LASS  O1  LOWRI&S. 

During  the  warm  weather,  he  saw  her  often  at  the  door; 
or  near  the  gate ;  almost  always  with  the  child  in  her 
arms.  There  was  no  awkward  shrinking  in  her  manner 
at  such  times,  no  vestige  of  the  clumsy  consciousness 
usually  exhibited  by  girls  of  her  class.  She  met  his  glance 
with  a  grave  quietude,  scarcely  touched  with  interest,  lie 
thought ;  he  never  observed  that  she  smiled,  though  he 
was  uncomfortably  conscious  now  and  then  that  she  stood 
and  calmly  watched  him  out  of  sight. 


CHAPTEE  Till. 

THE   WAGES    OF   BATTLE. 

"  OWD  Sammy  Craddock "  rose  from  his  chair,  ar_»d 
g)ing  to  tlje  mantle-piece,  took  down  a  tobacco  jar  of  red 
and  yellow  delft,  and  proceeded  to  fill  his  pipe  with 
solemn  ceremony.  It  was  a  large,  deep' clay  pipe,  and 
held  a  great  deal  of  tobacco — particularly  when  filled 
from  the  store  of  an  acquaintance.  "  It's  a  good  enow 
pipe  to  borrow  wi',"  Sammy  was  wont  to  remark.  In 
the  second  place,  Mr.  Craddock  drew  forth  a  goodly  por 
tion  of  the  weed,  and  pressed  it  down  with  ease  and  pre 
cision  into  the  top  of  the  foreign  gentleman's  turban  which 
constituted  the  bowl.  Then  he  lighted  it  with  a  piece 
of  paper,  remarking  to  his  wife  between  long  indrawn 
puffs,  " I'm  goin'— to  th'  Public." 

The  good  woman  did  not  receive  the  intelligence  as 
amicably  as  it  had  been  given. 

"  Aye,''  she  said,  "  I'll  warrant  tha  art.  When  tha  art 
na  fillin'  thy  belly  tha  art  generally  either  goin'  to  th' 
Public,  or  comin'  whoam.  Aw  Kiggan  ud  go  to  ruin  if 
tha  wert  na  at  th'  Public  fro'  morn  till  neet  looking  after 
other  folkses  business.  It's  well  for  th'  toun  as  tha'st  get- 
ten  nowt  else  to  do." 

Sammy  puffed  away  at  his  pipe,  without  any  appear 
ance  of  disturbance. 

"Aye,"   he  consented   dryly,  "it  is,  that,     It  ud   be  a 


70  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRI&S. 

bad  thing  to  ha'  th'  pits  stop  workin'  aw  because  I  had  na 
attended  to  'era,  an'  gi'en  th'  mesters  a  bit  o'  encourage 
ment.  Tha  sees  mine's  what  th'  gentlefolk  ca'  a  responsi 
ble  position  i'  society.  Th'  biggest  trouble  I  ha',  is  settlin' 
i'  my  moiiid  what  th'  world  'ill  do  when  I  turn  up  my 
toes  to  th'  daisies,  an'  how  the  govermnent'll  mak'  up 
their  moinds  who  shall  ha'  th'  honor  o'  pay  in'  for  th' 
moniment." 

In  Mr.  Craddock's  opinion,  his  skill  in  the  solution  of 
political  and  social  problems  was  only  equaled  by  his 
aptitude  in  managing  the  weaker  sex.  He  never  lost  his 
temper  with  a  woman.  He  might  be  sarcastic,  he  was  some 
times  even  severe  in  his  retorts,  but  he  was  never  violent. 
In  any  one  else  but  Mr.  Craddock,  such  conduct  might  have 
been  considered  weak  by  the  male  population  of  Riggan, 
who  not  unfrequently  settled  their  trifling  domestic  diffi 
culties  with  the  poker  and  tongs,  chairs,  or  flat-irons,  or 
indeed  with  any  portable  piece  of  household  furniture. 
But  Mr.  Craddock's  way  of  disposing  of  feminine  antag 
onists  was  tolerated.  It  was  pretty  well  known  that  Mrs. 
Craddock  had  a  temper,  and  since  he  could  manage  her, 
it  was  not  worth  while  to  criticise  the  method. 

"  Tha'rt  an  owd  yommer-head,"  said  Mrs.  Craddock,  as 
oracularly  as  if  she  had  never  made  the  observation  before. 
"  Tha  deserves  what  tha  has  na  getten." 

"  Aye,  that  I  do,"  with  an  air  of  amiable  regret.  "  Tha'rt 
reet  theer  fur  once  i'  thy  loife.  Th?  country  has  na  done 
its  duty  by  me.  If  I'd  had  aw  I  deserved  I'd  been  th' 
Lord  Mayor  o'  Lunnon  by  this  toime,  an'  tha'd  a  been  th' 
Lady  Mayoress,  settin  up  i5  thy  parlor  wi'  a  goold  crown 
atop  o'  thy  owd  head,  sortin'  out  thy  cloathes  fur  th'  wesh- 
woman  i'stead  o'  dollyin'  out  thy  bits  o'  duds  fur  thysen 
Tha'rt  reet,  owd  lass — tha'rt  reet  enow." 


TEE   WAGER  OF  BATTLE.  71 

"  Go  thy  ways  to  th'  Public/'  retorted  the  old  dame, 
d.'lveii  to  desperation.  "I'm  tired  o'  hearken! n'  to  thee. 
Get  thee  gone  to  th'  Public,  or  we'st  ha'  th'  world  stand- 
in'  still ;  an'  moind  tha  do'st  na  set  th'  horse-ponds  afire 
as  tha  goes  by  'em." 

"  I'll  be  keerf ul,  owd  lass,"  chuckled  Sammy,  taking 
his  stick.  "  I'll  be  keerf  ul  for  th'  sake  o'  th'  town." 

He  made  his  way  toward  the  village  ale-house  in  the 
best  of  humors.  Arriving  at  The  Crown,  he  found  a  dis 
cussion  in  progress.  Discussions  were  always  being  car 
ried  on  there  in  fact,  but  this  time  it  was  not  Craddock's 
particular  friends  who  were  busy.  There  were  grades 
even  among  the  visitors  at  The  Crown,  and  there  were 
several  grades  below  Sammy's.  The  lowest  was  composed 
of  the  most  disreputable  of  the  colliers — men  who  with 
Lowrie  at  their  head  were  generally  in  some  mischief. 
It  was  these  men  who  were  talking  together  loudly  this 
evening,  and  as  usual,  Lowrie  was  the  loudest  in  the  party. 
They  did  not  seem  to  be  quarreling.  Three  or  four  sat 
round  a  table  listening  to  Lowrie  with  black  looks,  and 
toward  them  Sammy  glanced  as  he  came  in. 

"  What's  up  in  them  fellys  ? "  he  asked  of  a  friend. 

"Summat's  wrong  at  th'  pit,"  was  the  answer.  "I 
canna  mak'  out  what  mysen.  Summat  about  one  o'  th' 
mesters  as  they're  out  wi'.  What'll  tha  tak',  owd  lad  ?" 

"  A  pint  o'  sixpenny."  And  then  with  another  sidelong 
glance  at  the  debaters  : 

"  They're  an  ill  set,  that  lot,  an'  up  to  snmmat  ill  too, 
I'll  warrant.  He's  not  th'  reet  soart,  that  Lowrie." 

Lowrie  was  a  burly  fellow  with  a  surly,  sometimes  fero 
cious,  expression.  Drink  made  a  madman  of  him,  and 
among  his  companions  he  ruled  supreme  through  sheer 
physical  superiority.  The  man  who  quarreled  with  him 


72  THAT  LASS  O1  LO  WRISTS. 

might  be  sure  of  broken  bones,  if  not  of  something  worse. 
He  leaned  over  the  table  now,  scowling  as  he  spoke. 

"  I'll  ha'  no  lads  meddlin'  an'  settin'  th'  mesters  agen 
me"  Craddock  heard  him  say.  " Them  on  yo'  as  loikea 
to  tak'  cheek  mini  tak'  it,  I'm  too  owd  a  bird  fur  that 
soart  o'  feed.  It  sticks  i'  my  crop.  Look  thee  out  o'  that 
theer  window,  Jock,  and  watch  who  passes.  I'll  punse 
that  lad  into  th'  middle  o'  next  week,  as  sure  as  he  goes 
by." 

"  "Well,"  commented  one  of  his  companions,  "  aw  I've 
gotten  to  say  is,  as  tha'll  be  loike  to  ha'  a  punse  on  it,  fur 
he's  a  strappin'  youngster,  an'  noan  so  easy  feart." 

"  Da'st  ta  mean  to  say  as  I  conna  do  it  ? "  demanded 
Lowrie  fiercely. 

"Nay — nay,  mon,"  was  the  pacific  and  rather  hasty 
reply.  "  N"owt  o'  th'  soart.  I  on'y  meant  as  it  was  na 
ivvery  mon  as  could." 

"  Aye,  to  be  sure  !  "  said  Sammy  testily  to  his  friend. 
"  That's  th'  game  is  it  ?  Theer's  a  f eight  on  hond.  That'a 
reet,  my  lads,  lay  in  thy  beer,  an'  mak'  dom'd  fool's  o' 
thysens,  an'  tha'lt  get  a  chance  to  sleep  on  th'  soft  side  o' 
a  paving-stone  i'  th'  lock-ups." 

He  had  been  a  fighting  man  himself  in  his  young  days, 
and  had  prided  himself  particularly  upon  "  showing  his 
muscle,"  in  Riggan  parlance,  but  he  had  never  been  such 
a  man  as  Lowrie.  His  comparatively  gentlemanly  en 
counters  with  personal  friends  had  always  been  fair  and 
square,  and  in  many  cases  had  laid  the  foundation  for 
future  toleration,  even  amiability.  He  had  never  hesi 
tated  to  "tak'  a  punse"  at  an  offending  individual,  but 
he  had  always  been  equally  ready  to  shake  hands  when 
all  was  over,  and  in  some  cases,  when  having  temporarily 
olosed  a  companion's  eyes  in  the  heat  of  an  argument, 


THE   WAGER  OF  BATTLE.  73 

he  bad  been  known  to  lead  him  to  the  counter  of  "  th' Pub 
lic,"  and  bestow  nectar  upon  him  in  the  form  of  "  six 
penny."  But  of  Lowrie,  even  the  fighting  community, 
which  was  the  community  predominating  in  Riggan, 
could  not  speak  so  well.  He  was  "  ill-farrant,"  and 
revengeful, — ready  to  fight,  but  not  ready  to  forgive, 
lie  had  been  known  to  bear  a  grudge,  and  remember  it, 
when  it  had  been  forgotten  by  other  people.  His  record 
was  not  a  clean  one,  and  accordingly  he  was  not  a  favorite 
of  Sammy  Craddock's. 

A  short  time  afterward  somebody  passed  the  window 
facing  the  street,  and  Lowrie  started  up  with  an  oath. 

"  Theer  he  is  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Now  fur  it.  I  thowt 
he'd  go  this  road.  I'll  see  what  tha's  getten  to  say  fur 
thysen,  my  lad." 

Pie  was  out  in  the  street  almost  before  Craddock  and 
his  companion  had  time  to  reach  the  open  window,  and  he 
had  stopped  the  passer-by,  who  paused  to  confront  him 
haughtily. 

"  Why  !  "  cried  Sammy,  slapping  his  knee, "  I'm  dom'd 
if  it  is  na  th'  Lunnon  engineer  chap." 

Fergus  Derrick  stood  before  his  enemy  with  anything 
but  a  propitiatory  air.  That  this  brutal  fellow  who  had 
caused  him  trouble  enough  already,  should  interfere  with 
his  very  progress  in  the  street,  was  too  much  for  his  high 
spirit  to  bear. 

"  I  comn  out  here,"  said  Lowrie,  "  to  see  if  tha  had  owt 
to  say  to  me." 

"  Then,"  replied  Fergus,  "  you  may  go  in  again,  for  1 
have  nothing." 

Lowrie  drew  a  step  nearer  to  him. 

"  Art  tha  sure  o'  that  ? "  he  demanded.  "  Tha  wert  so 
ready  wi'  thy  gab  about  th'  Davys  this  mornin'  I  thowt 


7£  THAT  LAtix   a  LOWRIE'S 

happen  tha'd  loike  to  say  sumrnat  more  if  a  mori  ud  gi'  yo 
a  chance.  Bat  happen  agen  yoVe  one  o'  th'  soart  as 
sticks  to  gab  an'  goes  no  further." 

Derrick's  eyes  blazed,  he  flung  out  his  open  hand  in  a 
contemptuous  gesture. 

"  Out  of  the  way,"  he  said,  in  a  suppressed  voice,  "  and 
let  me  pass." 

But  Lowrie  only  came  nearer. 

"Nay,  but  I  wunnot,"  he  said,  "  until  I've  said  my  say. 
Tha  wert  goin'  to  mak'  me  obey  th'  rules  or  let  th' 
mesters  hear  on  it,  wert  tha?  Tha  wert  goin'  to  keep 
thy  eye  on  me,  an'  report  when  th'  toime  come,  wert  tha  ? 
"Well,  th'  toime  has  na  come  yet,  and  now  I'm  goin'  to  gi' 
thee  a  thrashin'." 

He  sprang  upon  him  with  a  ferocity  which  would 
have  flung  to  the  earth  any  man  who  had  not  possessed 
the  thews  and  sinews  of  a  lion.  Derrick  managed  to 
preserve  his  equilibrium.  After  the  first  blow,  he  could 
not  control  himself.  Naturally,  he  had  longed  to  thrash 
this  fellow  soundly  often  enough,  and  now  that  he 
had  been  attacked  by  him,  he  felt  forbearance  to  be  no 
virtue.  Brute  force  could  best  conquer  brute  nature. 
He  felt  that  he  would  rather  die  a  thousand  deaths  than 
be  conquered  himself.  He  put  forth  all  his  strength  in 
an  effort  that  awakened  the  crowd — which  had  speedily 
surrounded  them,  Owd  Sammy  among  the  number — to 
wild  admiration. 

"Get  thee  unto  it,  lad,';  cried  the  old  sinner  in  an 
ecstasy  of  approbation,  "  Get  thee  unto  it !  Tha'rt 
shapin'  reet  I  see.  Why,  I'm  dom'd,"  slapping  his  knee 
as  usual — "  I'm  dom'd  if  he  is  na  goin'  to  mill  Dan 
Lowrie ! " 

To  the  amazement  of  the  by-standers,  it  became  evident 


TEE   WAGER  OF  BATTLE.  75 

in  a  very  short  time,  that  Lowrie  had  met  his  match. 
Finding  it  necessary  to  defend  himself ,  Derrick  was  going 
to  do  something  more.  The  result  was  that  the  breathless 
struggle  for  the  mastery  ended  in  a  crash,  and  Lowrie  lay 
upon  the  pavement,  Fergus  Derrick  standing  above  him 
pale,  fierce  and  panting. 

"Look  to  him,"  he  said  to  the  men  about  him,  in  a 
white  heat,  "  and  remember  that  the  fellow  provoked  me 
to  it.  If  he  tries  it  again,  I  will  try  again  too."  And  he 
turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  away. 

He  had  been  far  more  tolerant,  even  in  his  wrath,  than 
most  men  would  have  been,  but  he  had  disposed  of  his 
enemy  effectually..  The  fellow  lay  stunned  upon  the 
ground.  In  his  fall,  he  had  cut  his  head  upon  the  curb 
stone,  and  the  blood  streamed  from  the  wound  when  his 
companions  crowded  near,  and  raised  him.  Owd  Sammy 
Craddock  offered  no  assistance  ;  he  leaned  upon  his  stick, 
and  looked  on  with  grim  satisfaction. 

"  Tha's  getten  what  tha  deserved,  owd  lad,"  he  said 
in  an  undertone.  "An'  tha'st  getten  no  more.  I'st 
owe  th'  Lunnon  chap  one  fro'  this  on.  He's  done  a  bit 
o'  work  as  I'd  ha'  takken  i'  bond  mysen  long  ago,  if 
I'd  ha'  been  thirty  years  younger,  an'  a  bit  less  stiff  i'  th' 
hinges." 

Fergus  had  not  escaped  without  hurt  himself,  and  the 
first  angry  excitement  over,  he  began  to  feel  so  sharp  an 
ache  in  his  wrist,  that  he  made  up  his  mind  to  rest  for  a 
few  minutes  at  Grace's  lodgings  before  going  home.  It 
would  be  wise  to  know  the  extent  of  his  injury. 

Accordingly,  he  made  his  appearance  in  the  parlor, 
somewhat  startling  his  friend,  who  was  at  supper. 

"  My  dear  Fergus  !  "  exclaimed  Paul.  "  How  excited 
you  look !  " 


76  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRI&S. 

Derrick  flung  himself  into  a  chair,  feeling  rather  du 
bious  about  his  strength,  all  at  once. 

"Do  I ? "  he  said,  with  a  faint  smile.  "  Don't  be 
alarmed,  Grace,  I  have  no  doubt  I  look  as  I  feel.  .  I  have 
been  having  a  brush  with  that  scoundrel  Lowrie,  and  I 
believe  something  has  happened  to  my  wrist." 

He  made  an  effort  to  raise  his  left  hand  and  failed, 
succumbing  to  a  pain  so  intense  that  it  forced  an  excla 
mation  from  him. 

"  I  thought  it  was  a  sprain,"  he  said,  when  he  recovered 
himself,  "  but  it  is  a  job  for  a  surgeon.  It  is  broken." 

And  so  it  proved  under  the  examination  of  the  nearest 
practitioner,  and  then  Derrick  remembered  a  wrench 
and  shock  which  he  had  felt  in  Lowrie's  last  desperate 
effort  to  recover  himself.  Some  of  the  small  bones  had 
broken. 

Grace  called  in  the  surgeon  himself,  and  stood  by  during 
the  strapping  and  bandaging  with  an  anxious  face,  really 
suffering  as  much  as  Derrick,  perhaps  a  trifle  more.  He 
would  not  hear  of  his  going  home  that  night,  but  insisted 
that  he  should  remain  where  he  was. 

"  I  can  sleep  on  the  lounge  myself,"  he  protested, 
"  And  though  I  shall  be  obliged  to  leave  you  for  half  an 
hour,  I  assure  you  I  shall  not  be  away  a  longer  time." 

"  Where  are  you  going  ?  "  asked  Derrick. 

"To  the  Rectory.  Mr.  JBarholm  sent  a  message  an 
hour  ago,  that  he  wished  to  see  me  upon  business." 

Fergus  agreed  to  remain.  When  Grace  was  on  the 
point  of  leaving  the  room,  he  turned  his  head. 

"You  are  going  to  the  Rectory,  you  say?"  he  re 
marked. 

"  Yes.  " 

"  Do  you  think  you  shall  see  Anice  ?  " 


THE   WAGER  Or   BATTLE.  77 

u  It  is  very  probable,"  confusedly. 

"I  merely  thought  I  would  ask  you  not  to  mention  thia 
affair  to  her,"  said  Derrick.  The  curate's  face  assumed 
an  expression  at  that  moment,  which  it  was  well  that  his 
friend  did  not  see.  A  shadow  of  bewilderment  and 
anxiety  fell  upon  it  and  the  color  faded  away. 

"  You  think — "  faltered  he. 

"  Well,  I  thought  that  perhaps  it  would  shock  or  alarm 
her,"  answered  Derrick.  "  She  might  fancy  it  to  havo 
been  a  more  serious  matter  than  it  was." 

"  Very  well.     I  think  you  are  right,  perhaps." 


CHAPTEK  IX. 

THE   NEWS   AT   THE   RECTORY. 

IF  she  did  not  hear  of  the  incident  from  Grace,  Anice 
heard  of  it  from  another  quarter. 

The  day  following,  the  village  was  ringing  with  the 
particulars  of  "  th'  f eight  betwix'  th'  Lunnon  chap  an' 
Dan  Lowrie." 

Having  occasion  to  go  out  in  the  morning,  Mr.  Barholm 
returned  to  luncheon  in  a  state  of  great  excitement. 

"  Dear  me ! "  he  began,  almost  as  soon  as  he  entered 
the  room.  "  Bless  my  life  !  what  ill-conditioned  animals 
these  colliers  are  !  " 

Anice  and  her  mother  regarded  him  questionably. 

"What  do  you  suppose  I  have  just  heard;"  he  went 
on.  "  Mr.  Derrick  has  had  a  very  unpleasant  affair  with 
one  of  the  men  who  work  under  him — no  other  than  that 
Lowrie — the  young  woman's  father.  They  are  a  bad  lot 
it  seems,  and  Lowrie  had  a  spite  against  Derrick,  and 
attacked  him  openly,  and  in  the  most  brutal  manner,  as 
he  was  going  through  the  village  yesterday  evening." 

"  Are  you  sure  ?  "  cried  Anice.  "  Oh !  papa,"  and  she 
put  her  hand  upon  the  table  as  if  she  needed  support. 

"  There  is  not  the  slightest  doubt,"  was  the  answer, 
"  everybody  is  talking  about  it.  It  appears  that  it  is  one 
of  the  strictest  rules  of  the  mine  that  the  men  shall  keep 
their  Davy  lamps  locked  while  they  are  in  the  pit — indeed 


THE  NEWS  AT  THE  RECTORY.  79 

they  are  directed  to  deliver  up  their  keys  before  going 
down,  and  Derrick  having  strong  suspicions  that  Lowrie 
had  procured  a  false  key,  gave  him  a  rather  severe  rating 
about  it,  and  threatened  to  report  him,  and  the  end  of  the 
matter  was  the  trouble  of  yesterday.  The  wonder  is,  that 
Derrick  came  off  conqueror.  They  say  he  gave  the  fellow 
a  sound  thrashing.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  force  in  that 
young  man,"  he  said,  rubbing  his  hands.  "  There  is  a  good 
deal  of — of  pluck  in  him — as  we  used  to  say  at  Oxford." 

Anice  shrank  from  her  father's  evident  enjoyment,  feel 
ing  a  mixture  of  discomfort  and  dread.  Suppose  the 
tables  had  turned  the  other  way.  Suppose  it  had  been 
Lowrie  who  had  conquered.  She  had  heard  of  horrible 
things  done  by  such  men  in  their  blind  rage.  Lowrie 
would  not  have  paused  where  Derrick  did.  The  news 
papers  told  direful  tales  of  such  struggles  ending  in  the 
conquered  being  stamped  upon,  maimed,  beaten  out  of  life. 

"It  is  very  strange,"  she  said,  almost  impatiently. 
"  Mr.  Grace  must  have  known,  and  yet  he  said  nothing. 
I  wish  he  would  come." 

As  chance  had  it,  the  door  opened  just  at  that  moment, 
and  the  Curate  was  announced.  He  was  obliged  to  drop 
in  at  all  sorts  of  unceremonious  hours,  and  to-day  some 
school  business  had  brought  him.  The  Rector  turned  to 
greet  him  with  unwonted  warmth.  "  The  very  man  we 
want,"  he  exclaimed,  "  Anice  was  just  wishing  for  you 
We  have  been  talking  of  this  difficulty  between  Derrick 
and  Lowrie,  and  we  are  anxious  to  hear  what  you  know 
about  it." 

Grace  glanced  at  Anice  uneasily. 

"  We  wanted  to  know  if  Mr.  Derrick  was  quite  unin 
jured,"  she  said.  "  Papa  did  not  hear  that  he  was  hurt 
at  all,  but  you  will  be  able  to  tell  us." 


80  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRIE'S. 

There  was  an  expression  in  her  upraised  eyes  the  Curate 
had  never  seen  there. 

"He  met  with  an  injury,"  he  answered,  "but  it  was 
not  a  severe  one.  He  came  to  my  rooms  last  night  and 
remained  with  me.  His  wrist  is  fractured." 

He  was  not  desirous  of  discussing  the  subject  very 
freely,  it  was  evident,  even  to  Mr.  Barholm,  who  was 
making  an  effort  to  draw  him  out.  He  seemed  rather  to 
avoid  it,  after  he  had  made  a  brief  statement  of  what  he 
knew.  In  his  secret  heart,  he  shrank  from  it  with  a 
dread  far  more  nervous  than  Anice's.  He  had  doubts  of 
his  own  concerning  Lowrie's  action  in  the  future.  Thus 
the  Rector's  excellent  spirits  grated  on  him,  and  he  said 
but  little. 

Anice  was  silent  too.  After  luncheon,  however,  she 
went  into  a  small  conservatory  adjoining  the  room,  and 
before  Grace  took  his  departure,  she  called  him  to  her. 

"  It  is  very  strange  that  you  did  not  tell  us  last  night," 
she  said  ;  "  why  did  you  not  ?  " 

"  It  was  Derrick's  forethought  for  you,"  he  answered. 
"He  was  afraid  that  the  story  would  alarm  you,  and  as  I 
agreed  with  him  that  it  might,  I  remained  silent.  I 
might  as  well  have  spoken,  it  appears." 

"  He  thought  it  would  frighten  me  ? "  she  said. 

«  Yes." 

"  Has  this  accident  made  him  ill  ?  " 

"  No,  not  ill,  though  the  fracture  is  a  very  painful  and 
inconvenient  one." 

"  I  am  very  sorry  ;  please  tell  him  so.  And,  Mr. 
Grace,  when  he  feels  able  to  come  here,  I  have  something 
to  say  to  him." 

Derrick  marched  into  the  Barholm  parlor  that  very 
night  with  his  arm  in  splints  and  bandages. 


THE  NEWS  AT  THE  RECTORY.  81 

It  was  a  specially  pleasant  and  homelike  evening  to 
him  ;  Mrs.  Barholm's  gentle  heart  went  out  to  the  hand 
some  invalid.  She  had  never  had  a  son  of  her  own, 
though  it  must  be  confessed  she  had  yearned  for  one. 
strong  and  deep  as  was  her  affection  for  her  girl. 

But  it  was  not  till  Derrick  bade  An  ice  good-night,  that 
he  heard  what  she  intended  to  say  to  him.  When  he  was 
going,  just  as  he  stepped  across  the  threshold  of  the  en 
trance  door,  she  stopped  him. 

"  Wait  a  minute,  if  you  will  be  so  good,"  she  said,  "  I. 
have  something  to  ask  of  you." 

He  paused,  half  smiling. 

"  I  thought  you  had  forgotten,"  he  returned. 

"Oh!  110,  I  had  not  forgotten,"  she  answered.  "But 
it  will  only  seem  a  very  slight  thing  to  you  perhaps." 
Then  she  began  again,  after  a  pause.  "  If  you  please,  do 
not  think  I  am  a  coward,"  she  said. 

^  A  coward  !  "  he  repeated. 

"  You  were  afraid  to  let  Mr.  Grace  tell  me  about  your 
accident  last  night  and  though  it  was  very  kind  of  you,  I 
did  not  like  it.  You  must  not  think  that  because  these 
things  are  new  and  shock  me,  I  am  not  strong  enough  to 
trust  in.  I  am  stronger  than  I  look." 

"  My  dear  Miss  Barholm,"  he  protested,  "  I  am  sure  of 
that.  I  ought  to  have  known  better.  Forgive  me  if— 

"  Oh,"  she  interposed,  "  you  must  not  blame  yourself. 
But  I  wanted  to  ask  you  to  be  so  kind  as  to  think  better  of 
me  than  that.  I  want  to  be  sure  that  if  ever  I  can  be  of 
use  to  anybody,  you  will  not  stop  to  think  of  the  danger  or 
annoyance.  Such  a  time  may  never  come,  but  if  it  does — " 

"  I  shall  certainly  remember  what  ycu  have  said,"  Fer 
gus  ended  for  her. 


CHAPTER  X. 

ON   THE   KNOLL   ROAD. 

THE  moon  was  shining  brightly  when  he  stepped  into 
the  open  road — so  brightly  that  he  could  see  every  object 
far  before  him  unless  where  the  trees  cast  their  black 
shadows,  which  seemed  all  the  blacker  for  the  \ight. 
"  What  a  grave  little  creature  she  is! "  he  was  saying  to 
himself.  But  he  stopped  suddenly ;  under  one  of  the 
trees  by  the  roadside  some  one  was  standing  motionless ; 
as  he  approached,  the  figure  stepped  boldly  out  into  the 
moonlight  before  him.  It  was  a  woman. 

i» 

"  Dunnot  be  afeard,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  hurried  voice. 
"  It's  me,  mester — it's  Joan  Lowrie." 

"  Joan  Lowrie  !  "  he  said  with  surprise.  "  What  has 
brought  you  out  at  this  hour,  and  whom  are  you  waiting 
for?" 

"  I'm  waiting  for  yo'rsen,"  she  answered. 

"  For  me  ? " 

"  Aye  ;  I  ha'  summat  to  say  to  you." 

She  looked  about  her  hurriedly. 

"Yo'd  better  come  into  th'  shade  o'  them  trees,"  she 
said,  "  I  dunnot  want  to  gi'  any  one  a  chance  to  see  me 
nor  yo'  either." 

It  was  impossible  that  he  should  not  hesitate  a  moment 
If  she  had  been  forced  into  entrapping  him  1 

She  made  a  sharp  gesture. 


ON  THE  KNOLL  ROAD.  83 

"I  am  na  goin'  to  do  no  harm,"  she  said.  "Yo'  may 
trust  me.  It's  th'  other  way  about." 

"  I  ask  pardon,"  he  said,  feeling  heartily  ashamed  of 
himself  the  next  instant,  "  but  you  know — " 

"  Aye,"  impatiently,  as  they  passed  into  the  shadow, 
"  I  know,  or  I  should  na  be  here  now  " 

A  moonbeam,  finding  its  way  through  a  rift  in  the 
boughs  and  falling  on  her  face,  showed  him  that  she  was 
very  pale. 

"  Yo'  wonder  as  I'm  here  at  aw,"  she  said,  not  meeting 
his  eyes  as  she  spoke,  "  but  yo'  did  me  a  good  turn  onct, 
an'  I  ha1  na  had  so  many  done  me  i'  my  loife  as  I  can 
forget  one  on  'em.  I'm  come  here — fur  I  may  as  well 
mak'  as  few  words  on't  as  I  con — I  come  here  to  tell  yo' 
to  tak'  heed  o'  Dan  Lowrie." 

"  What  ? "  said  Fergus.  "  He  bears  me  a  grudge,  does 
he?" 

"Aye,  he  bears  thee  grudge  enow,"  she  said.  "He 
bears  thee  that  much  grudge  that  if  he  could  lay  his  hond 
on  thee,  while  th'  heat's  on  him,  he'd  kill  thee  or  dee. 
He  will  n a  be  so  bitter  after  a  while,  happen,  but  he'd  do 
it  now,  and  that's  why  I  warn  thee.  Tha  has  no  reet  to  be 
goin'  out  loike  this,"  glancing  at  his  bandaged  arm. 
"  How  could  tha  help  thy  sen  if  he  were  to  set  on  thee. 
Tha  had  better  tak'  heed,  I  tell  thee." 

"  I  am  very  much  indebted  to  you,"  began  Fergus. 

She  stopped  him. 

"  Tha  did  me  a  good  turn,"  she  said.  And  then  hei 
voice  changed.  "Dan  Lowrie's  my  feyther,  an'  I've  stuck 
to  him,  I  dunnot  know  why — happen  cause  I  never  had 
nowt  else  to  hold  to  and  do  for  ;  but  feyther  or  no  feyther 
I  know  he's  a  bad  un  when  th'  fit's  on  an'  he  has  a  spite 
agen  a  roon.  So  tak'  care,  I  tell  thee  agen.  Theer  now, 


84  THAT  LASS  0'  LO  WRIST 8. 

I've  done.  Will  tha  walk  on  first  an'  let  me  follow 
thee?" 

Something  in  her  mode  of  making  this  suggestion  im 
pressed  him  singularly. 

"  I  do  not  quite  understand — "  he  said. 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him,  her  face  white  and  reso 
lute. 

"  I  dunnot  want  harm  done,"  she  answered.  "  I  will  na 
ha'  harm  done  if  I  con  help  it,  an'  if  I  mun  speak  th' 
truth  I  know  theer's  harm  afoot  to-neet.  If  I'm  behind 
thee,  theer  is  na  a  mon  i'  Riggan  as  dare  lay  hond  onthee 
to  my  face,  if  I  am  nowt  but  a  lass.  That's  why  I  ax  thee 
to  let  me  keep  i'  soight." 

"  You  are  a  brave  woman,"  he  said,  "  and  I  will  do  aa 
you  tell  me,  but  I  feel  like  a  coward." 

"  Theer  is  no  need  as  you  should,"  she  answered 
in  a  softened  voice.  "  Yo'  dunnot  seem  loike  one  to 
me." 

Derrick  bent  suddenly,  and  taking  her  hand,  raised  it  to 
his  lips.  At  this  involuntary  act  of  homage — for  it  was 
nothing  less — Joan  Lowrie  looked  up  at  him  with  startled 
eyes. 

"I  am  na  a  lady,"  she  said,  and  drew  her  hand 
away. 

They  went  out  into  the  road  together,  he  first,  she  fol 
lowing  at  a  short  distance,  so  that  nobody  seeing  the  one 
could  avoid  seeing  the  other.  It  was  an  awkward  and 
trying  position  for  a  man  of  Derrick's  temperament,  and 
under  some  circumstances  he  would  have  rebelled  against 
it ;  as  it  was,  he  could  not  feel  humiliated. 

At  a  certain  dark  bend  in  the  road  not  far  from  Lowrie's 
cottage,  Joan  halted  suddenly  and  spoke. 

"  Feyther,"  she  said,  in  a  clear  steady  voice,  "  is  ua  that 


ON  THE  KNOLL  ROAD.  85 

yo'  standin'  theer?  I  thowt  yo'd  happen  to  be  comin' 
whoam  this  way.  Wheer  has  tha  been  ? "  And  as  he 
passed  on,  Derrick  caught  the  sound  of  a  muttered  oath, 
and  gained  a  side  glimpse  of  a  heavy,  slouching  figure 
comirg  stealthily  out  of  the  shadow. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

NIB   AND    HIS   MASTER   MAKE   A    CALL. 

"  Hoo's  a  queer  little  wench,"  said  one  of  the  roughest 
Rigganite  matrons,  after  Anice's  first  visit.  "I  wur  ij 
th'  middle  o'  my  weshin  when  she  coorn, — up  to  th' 
neck  i'  th'  suds, — and  I  wur  vexed  enow  when  1  seed  her 
standin'  i'  th'  door,  lookin'  at  me  wi'  them  big  eyes  o'  hers 
— most  loike  a  babby's  wonderin'  at  summat.  '  We  dun- 
not  want  none,'  I  says,  soart  o'  sharp  loike,  th'  minute  I 
clapped  my  eyes  on  her.  i  Theer's  no  one  here  as  can 
read,  an'  none  on  us  has  no  toime  to  spare  if  we  could,  so 
we  dunnot  want  none.'  '  Dunnot  want  no  what  ? '  she 
says.  'No  tracks,'  says  I.  And  what  do  yo'  think  she 
does,  lasses?  Why,  she  begins  to  soart  o'  dimple  up 
about  th'  corners  o'  her  mouth  as  if  I'd  said  summat  reight 
down  queer,  an'  she  gi'es  a  bit  o'  a  lan°.  '  Well,'  she 
Bays,  ( I'm  glad  o'  that.  It's  a  good  thing,  fur  I  hav'n't 
got  none.5  An'  then  it  turns  out  that  she  just  stopped  fur 
nowt  but  to  leave  some  owd  linen  an'  salve  for  to  dress 
that  sore  hond  Jack  crushed  i'  th'  pit.  He'd  towd  her 
about  it  as  he  went  to  his  work,  and  she  promised  to  bring 
him  some.  An'  what's  more,  she  wouldna  coom  in,  but 
just  gi'  it  me,  an'  went  her  ways,  as  if  she  had  na  been 
th'  Parson's  lass  at  aw,  but  just  one  o'  th'  common  koind, 
as  knowd  how  to  moind  her  own  business  an'  leave  other 
folkses  a-be." 


NIB  AND  HIS  MASTER  MAKE  A   CALL.  87 

The  Rigganites  became  quite  accustomed  to  the  sight  of 
Alice's  small  low  phaeton,  with  its  comfortable  fat  gray 
pony.  She  was  a  pleasant  sight  herself  as  she  sat  in  it, 
her  little  whip  in  her  small  gloved  hand,  and  no  one  was 
ever  sorry  to  see  her  check  the  gray  pony  before  the  door. 

"  Anice ! "  said  Mr.  Barholm  to  his  curate,  "  well !  yon 
see  Anice  understands  these  people,  and  they  understand 
her.  She  has  the  faculty  of  understanding  them.  There 
is  nothing,  you  may  be  assured,  Grace,  like  understanding 
the  lower  orders,  and  entering  into  their  feelings." 

There  was  one  member  of  Riggan  society  who  had 
ranged  himself  among  Miss  Barholm's  disciples  from  the 
date  of  his  first  acquaintance  with  her,  who  was  her  stanch 
friend  and  adviser  from  that  time  forward — the  young 
master  of  "  th'  best  tarrier  i'  Riggan."  Neither  Jud  Bates 
nor  Nib  faltered  in  their  joint  devotions  from  the  hour  of 
their  first  introduction  to  "  th'  Parson's  daughter."  When 
they  presented  themselves  at  the  Rectory  together,  the 
cordiality  of  Nib's  reception  had  lessened  his  master's 
awkwardness.  Nib  was  neither  awkward  nor  one  whit 
abashed  upon  his  entree  into  a  sphere  so  entirely  new  to 
him  as  a  well-ordered,  handsomely  furnished  house.  Once 
inside  the  parlor,  Jud  had  lost  courage  and  stood  fum 
bling  his  ragged  cap,  but  Nib  had  bounced  forward,  in  the 
best  of  good  spirits,  barking  in  friendly  recognition  of 
Miss  Barholm's  greeting  caress,  and  licking  her  hand. 
Through  Nib,  Anice  contrived  to  inveigle  Jud  into  conver 
sation  and  make  him  forget  his  overwhelming  confusion. 
Catching  her  first  glimpse  of  the  lad  as  he  stood  upon 
the  threshold  with  his  dubious  garments  and  his  abashed 
air,  she  was  not  quite  decided  what  she  was  to  do  with 
him.  But  Nib  came  to  her  assistance.  He  forced  him 
self  upon  her  attention  and  gave  her  something  to  say,  and 


83  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRI&S. 

her  manner  of  receiving  him  was  such,  that  in  a  few 
minutes  she  found  Jud  sidling  toward  her,  as  she  half 
knelt  on  the  hearth  patting  his  favorite's  rough  back.  Jud 
looked  down  at  her,  and  she  looked  up  at  Jud. 

u  Have  you  taught  him  to  do  anything  \ "  she  asked. 
"  Does  he  know  any  tricks  \ " 

"  He'll  kill  more  rats  i'  ten  minutes  than  ony  dog  P 
Riggan.  He's  th'  best  tarrier  fur  rats  as  tha  ivver  seed. 
He's  th'  best  tarrier  for  owt  as  tha  ivver  seed.  Theer  is 
nowt  as  he  canna  do.  He  con  f  eight  ony  dog  as  theer  is 
fro'  heer  to  Marfort."  And  he  glowed  in  all  the  pride  of 
possession,  and  stooped  down  to  pat  Nib  himself. 

He  was  quite  communicative  after  this.  He  was  a 
shrewd  little  fellow  and  had  not  spent  his  ten  years  in 
the  mining  districts  for  nothing.  He  was  thoroughly 
conversant  with  the  ways  of  the  people  his  young  hostess 
wished  to  hear  about.  He  had  worked  in  the  pits  a  little, 
and  he  had  tramped  about  the  country  with  Nib  at  his 
heels  a  great  deal.  He  was  supposed  to  live  with  his 
father  and  grandmother,  but  he  was  left  entirely  to  him 
self,  unless  when  he  was  put  to  a  chance  job.  He  knew 
Joan  Lowrie  and  pronounced  her  a  "  brave  un ;  "  he  knew 
and  reverenced  "  Owd  Sammy  Craddock ; "  he  knew 
Joan's  father  and  evidently  regarded  him  with  distrust ; 
in  fact  there  was  not  a  man,  woman  or  child  in  the  place 
of  whom  he  did  not  know  something. 

Mr.  Barholm  happening  to  enter  the  room  during  the 
interview,  found  his  daughter  seated  on  a  low  seat  with 
Nib's  head  on  her  knee,  and  Jud  a  few  feet  from  her. 
She  was  so  intent  on  the  task  of  entertaining  her  guest  that 
she  did  not  hear  her  father's  entrance,  and  the  Reverend 
Harold  left  the  three  together,  himself  in  rather  a  bo- 
wildered  frame  of  mind. 


NIB  AND  HIS  MASTER  MAKE  A   CALL.  89 

"  Do  you  know? "  he  asked  of  his  wife  when  he  found 
her,  "  do  you  know  who  it  is  Anice  is  amusing  in  the 
parlor  ?  What  singular  fancies  the  girl  has,  with  all  her 
good  sense  1 " 


CHAPTEE  XIL 

ON    GTJAED. 

THOUGH  they  saw  comparatively  little  of  each  other, 
the  friendly  feeling  established  between  Anice  and  Joan, 
in  their  first  interview,  gained  strength  gradually  as  time 
went  on.  Coining  home  from  her  work  at  noon  or  at 
night,  Joan  would  see  traces  of  Anice's  presence,  and 
listen  to  Liz's  praises  of  her.  Liz  was  fond  of  her  and 
found  comfort  in  her.  The  days  when  the  gray  pony 
came  to  a  stop  in  his  jog-trot  on  the  roadside  before 
the  gate  had  a  kind  of  pleasurable  excitement  in  them. 
They  were  the  sole  spice  of  her  life.  She  understood 
Anice  as  little  as  she  understood  Joan,  but  she  liked 
her.  She  had  a  vague  fancy  that  in  some  way  Anice  was 
like  Joan ;  that  there  was  the  same  strength  in  her, — a 
strength  upon  which  she  herself  might  depend.  And 
then  she  found  even  a  stronger  attraction  in  her  visitor's 
personal  adornments,  in  her  graceful  dress,  in  any  elegant 
trifle  she  wore.  She  liked  to  look  at  her  clothes  and  ask 
questions  about  them,  and  wonder  how  she  would  look  if 
she  were  the  possessor  of  such  beautiful  things. 

"  She  wur  loike  a  pictur,"  she  would  say  mournfully  to 
Joan.  "  She  had  a  blue  gown  on,  an'  a  hat  wi'  blue-bells 
in  it,  an'  summat  white  an'  soft  frilled  up  round  her  neck. 
Eh  !  it  wur  pretty.  I  wish  I  wur  a  lady.  I  dunnot  see 
why  iv  very  body  canna  be  a  lady  an'  have  such  loike." 


OJV  GUARD.  91 

Later  Joan  got  up  and  went  to  the  child,  who  lay  upon 
the  bed  in  a  corner  of  the  room. 

There  were  thoughts  at  work  within  her  of  which  Liz 
knew  nothing.  Liz  only  looked  at  her  wondering  as  she 
took  the  sleeping  baby  in  her  arms,  and  began  to  pace 
the  floor,  walking  to  and  fro  with  a  slow  step. 

"  Have  I  said  owt  to  vex  yo'  ?  "  said  Liz. 

"  No,  lass,"  was  the  answer, "  it  is  na  thee  as  worrits  me. 
I  con  scarce  tell  what  it  is  mysen,  but  it  is  na  thee,  nivver 
fear." 

But  there  was  a  shadow  upon  her  all  the  rest  of  the 
night.  She  did  not  lay  the  child  down  again,  but  carried 
it  in  her  arms  until  they  went  to  bed,  and  even  there  it 
lay  upon  her  breast. 

"  It's  queer  to  me  as  yo'  should  be  so  fond  o'  that 
choild,  Joan,"  said  Liz,  standing  by  the  side  of  the  bed. 

Joan  raised  her  head  from  the  pillow  and  looked  down 
at  the  small  face  resting  upon  her  bosom,  and  she  touched 
the  baby's  cheek  lightly  with  her  finger,  flushing  curi 
ously. 

"  It's  queer  to  me  too,"  she  answered.  "  Get  thee  into 
bed,  Liz." 

Many  a  battle  was  fought  upon  that  homely  couch  when 
Liz  was  slumbering  quietly,  and  the  child's  soft  regular 
breathing  was  the  only  sound  to  be  heard  in  the  dark 
ened  room.  Amid  the  sordid  cares  and  humiliations  of 
Joan's  rough  life,  there  had  arisen  new  ones.  She  had 
secret  struggles — secret  yearnings, — and  added  to  these,  a 
secret  terror.  When  she  lay  awake  thinking,  she  was  list 
ening  for  her  father's  step.  There  was  not  a  night  in 
which  she  did  not  long  for,  and  dread  to  hear  it.  If  he 
staid  out  all  night,  she  went  down  to  her  work  under  a  load 
of  foreboding.  She  feared  to  look  into  the  faces  of  her 


92  THAT  LASS  0'  LO WRISTS. 

work-fellows,  lest  they  should  have  some  evil  story  to  tell ; 
she  feared  the  road  over  which  she  had  to  pass,  lest  at 
some  point,  its  very  dust  should  cry  out  to  her  in  a  dark 
stain.  She  knew  her  father  better  than  the  oldest  of  his 
companions,  and  she  watched  him  closely. 

"  He's  what  yo'  wenches  ud  ca'  a  handsum  chap,  that 
theer,"  said  Lowrie  to  her,  the  night  of  his  encounter  with 
Derrick.  "  He's  a  tall  chap  an'  a  strappin'  chap  an'  he's 
getten  a  good-lookin'  mug  o'  his  own,  but,"  clenching  hia 
fist  slowly  and  speaking,  "  I've  not  done  wi'  him  yet — I 
has  not  quite  done  wi'  him.  Wait  till  I  ha',  an'  then  see 
what  yo'll  say  about  his  beauty.  Look  yo'  here,  lass," — 
more  slowly  and  heavily  still, — "  he'll  noan  be  so  tall 
then  nor  yet  so  straight  an'  strappin'.  I'll  smash  his  good , 
lookin'  mug  if  I'm  dom'd  to  hell  fur  it.  Heed  tha  that  ?  " 

Instead  of  taking  lodgings  nearer  the  town  or  avoiding 
the  Knoll  Road,  as  Grace  advised  him  to  do  when  he 
heard  of  Joan's  warning,  Derrick  provided  himself  with 
a  heavy  stick,  stuck  a  pistol  into  his  belt  every  night  when 
he  left  his  office,  and  walked  home  as  usual,  keeping  a 
sharp  look-out,  however. 

"  If  I  avoid  the  fellow,"  he  said  to  Grace,  "  he  will 
suspect  at  once  that  I  feel  I  have  cause  to  fear  him  ;  and 
if  I  give  him  grounds  for  such  a  belief  as  that  I  might 
as  well  have  given  way  at  first. 

Strange  to  say  he  was  not  molested.  The  excitement 
seemed  to  die  a  natural  death  in  the  course  of  a  few  days. 
Lowrie  came  back  to  his  work  looking  sullen  ind  hard, 
but  he  made  no  open  threats,  and  he  even  seemed  easier 
to  manage.  Certainly  Derrick  found  his  companions 
more  respectful  and  submissive.  There  was  less  grum 
bling  among  them  and  more  passive  cbedience.  The 
rules  were  not  broken,  openly,  at  least,  and  he  himself 


ON  GUARD.  93 

was  not  defied.  It  was  not  pleasant  to  feel  that  what 
reason  and  civility  could  not  do,  a  tussel  had  accomplished, 
but  this  really  seemed  to  be  the  truth  of  the  matter,  and 
the  result  was  one  which  made  his  responsibilities  easier 
t:  bear. 

But  during  his  lonely  walks  homeward  on  these  summer 
nights,  Derrick  made  a  curious  discovery.  On  one  or 
two  occasions  he  became  conscious  that  he  had  a  compan 
ion  who  seemed  to  act  as  his  escort.  It  was  usually  upon 
dark  or  unpleasant  nights  that  he  observed  this,  and  the 
first  time  he  caught  sight  of  the  figure  which  always  walked 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road,  either  some  distance  be 
fore  or  behind  him,  he  put  his  hand  to  his  belt,  not  perceiv 
ing  for  some  moments  that  it  was  not  a  man  but  a  woman. 
It  was  a  woman's  figure,  and  the  knowledge  sent  the  blood 
to  his  heart  with  a  rush  that  quickened  its  beatings.  It 
might  have  been  chance,  he  argued,  that  took  her  home 
that  night  at  this  particular  time ;  but  when  time  after 
time, -the  same  thing  occurred,  he  saw  that  his  argument 
had  lost  its  plausibility.  It  was  no  accident,  there  was 
purpose  in  it ;  and  though  they  never  spoke  to  each  other 
or  in  any  manner  acknowledged  each  other's  presence,  and 
though  often  he  fancied  that  she  convinced  herself  that 
he  was  not  aware  of  her  motive,  he  knew  that  Joan's 
desire  to  protect  him  had  brought  her  there. 

He  did  not  speak  of  this  even  to  Grace. 

One  afternoon  in  making  her  visit  at  the  cottage,  Anice 
left  a  message  for  Joan.  She  had  brought  a  little  plant 
pot  holding  a  tiny  rose-bush  in  full  bloom,  and  when  she 
went  away  she  left  her  message  with  Liz. 

"  I  never  see  your  friend  when  I  am  here,"  she  said, 
"  will  you  ask  her  to  come  and  see  me  some  night  when 
she  is  not  too  tired  2  " 


94:  THAT  LASS  0'  LO  WRISTS. 

When  Joan  came  home  from  her  work,  the  first  thing 
that  caught  her  eye  was  a  lovely  bit  of  color, — the  little 
rose-bush  blooming  on  the  window-sill  where  Anice  her 
self  had  placed  it. 

She  went  and  stood  before  it,  and  when  Liz,  who  had 
been  temporarily  absent,  came  into  the  room,  she  was 
standing  before  it  still. 

"  She  browt  it,"  explained  Liz,  "  she  wur  here  this  after 
noon." 

"  Aye,"  she  answered,  "  wur  she  ?  " 

"  Aye,"  said  Liz.  "  An',  Joan,  what  do  yo'  think  she 
towd  me  to  tell  yo'  ?  " 

Joan  shook  her  head. 

"  Why,  she  said  I  were  to  tell  yo'  to  go  and  see  her 
some  neet  when  yo'  wur  na  tired, — just  th'  same  as  if  yo' 
wur  a  lady.  Shanna  yo'  go  ?  " 

"  I  dunnot  know,"  said  Joan  awakening,  "  I  canna  tell. 
What  does  she  want  o'  me  ?  " 

<;  She  wants  to  see  thee  an'  talk  to  thee,  that's  what," 
— answered  Liz, — "  just  th'  same  as  if  tha  was  a  lady,  I 
tell  thee.  That's  her  way  o'  doin'  things.  She  is  na  a 
bit  loike  the  rest  o'  gentlefolk.  Why,  she'll  sit  theer  on 
that  three-legged  stool  wi'  the  choild  on  her  knee  an'  laff 
an'  talk  to  me  an'  it,  as  if  she  wur  nowt  but  a  common 
lass  an'  noan  a  lady  at  aw.  She's  ta'en  a  great  fancy  to 
thee,  Joan.  She's  allus  axin  me  about  thee.  If  I  wur 
thee  I'd  go.  Happen  she'd  gi'  thee  some  o'  her  owd  cloas, 
as  she's  ta'en  to  thee  so." 

"  I  dunnot  want  no  owd  cloas,"  said  Joan  brusquely, 
"  air  she's  noan  so  daft  as  to  offer  'em  to  me." 

"  Well,  1  nivver  did  !  "  exclaimed  Liz.  u  Would  na 
tha  tak'  'em  ?  Tha  nivver  means  to  say,  tha  would 
na  tak?  'em,  Joan  ?  Eh  !  tha  art  a  queer  wench !  Why 


ON  GUARD.  95 

Fd  be  set  up  for  th'  rest  o'  my  days,  if  she'd  offer  'era 
to  me." 

"  Thy  ways  an'  mine  is  na  loike,"  said  Joan.  "  I  want 
no  gentlefolks  finery.  An'  I  tell  you  she  would  na  offer 
'em  to  me." 

"  I  nivver  con  mak'  thee  out,"  Liz  said,  in  a  fret. 
"  Tha'rt  as  grand  as  if  tha  wur  a  lady  thy  sen.  Tha'lt 
tak'  nowt  fro'  nobody." 

"  Wheer's  th'  choild  ?  "  asked  Joan. 

"  She's  laid  on  th'  bed,"  said  Liz.  "  She  wur  so  heavy 
she  tired  me  an'  I  gave  her  a  rose-bud  to  play  wi'  an'  left 
her.  She  has  na  cried  sin'.  Eh !  but  these  is  a  noice 
color,"  bending  her  pretty,  large-eyed  face  over  the  flowers, 
and  inhaling  their  perfume  ;  "  I  wish  I  had  a  bit  o'  ribbon 
loike  'ein." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

JOAN    AND    THE   PICTURE. 

NOTWITHSTANDING  Anice's  interference  in  his  behalf, 
Paul  did  not  find  his  labors  become  very  much  lighter.  And 
then  after  all  his  labor,  the  prospect  before  him  was  not 
promising.  Instead  of  appearing  easier  to  cope  with  as  he 
learned  more  of  it  and  its  inhabitants,  Riggan  seemed  still 
more  baffling.  His  "  district"  lay  in  the  lower  end  of  the 
town  among  ugly  back  streets,  and  alleys ;  among  dirt  and 
ignorance  and  obstinacy.  He  spent  his  days  in  laboring 
among  people  upon  whom  he  sometimes  fancied  he  had 
obtained  no  hold.  It  really  seemed  that  they  did  not  want 
him — these  people ;  and  occasionally  a  more  distressing 
view  of  the  case  presented  itself  to  his  troubled  mind, — 
namely,  that  to  those  who  might  chance  to  want  him  he 
had  little  to  offer. 

He  had  his  temporal  thorn  too.  He  found  it  difficult 
to  read,  hard  to  fix  his  mind  on  his  modest  sermons  ;  oc 
casionally  he  even  accused  himself  of  forgetting  his  duty. 
This  had  come  since  the  night  when  he  stood  at  the  door 
and  listened  to  his  friend's  warning  concerning  the  Rec 
tor's  daughter.  Derrick's  words  were  simple  enough  in 
themselves,  but  they  had  fallen  upon  the  young  Curate's 
ears  with  startling  significance.  He  had  given  this  signi 
ficance  to  them  himself, — in  spite  of  himself, — and  then 
all  at  once  he  had  fallen  to  wondering  why  it  was  that  he 


JOAN  AND   THE  PICTURE.  97 

had  never  thought  of  such  a  possible  denouement  before. 
It  was  so  very  possible,  so  very  probable ;  nay,  when  he 
came  to  think  of  it  seriously,  it  was  only  impossible  that 
it  should  not  be.  He  had  often  told  himself,  that  some  day 
a  lover  would  come  who  would  be  worthy  of  the  woman 
he  had  not  even  hoped  to  win.  And  who  was  more 
worthy  than  Fergus  Derrick — who  was  more  like  the  hero 
to  whom  such  women  surrender  their  hearts  and  lives. 
if  he  himself  had  been  such  a  man,  he  thought  with  the 
simplicity  of  affection,  he  would  not  have  felt  that  there 
was  need  for  fear.  And  the  two  had  been  thrown  so  much 
together  and  would  be  thrown  together  so  frequently  in  the 
future.  He  remembered  how  Fergus  had  been  taken 
into  the  family  circle,  and  calling  to  mind  a  hundred 
trifling  incidents,  smiled  at  his  own  blindness.  When  the 
next  day  he  received  Anice's  message,  he  received  it  as 
an  almost  positive  confirmation.  It  was  not  like  her  to 
bestow  favors  from  an  idle  impulse. 

It  was  not  so  easy  now  to  meet  the  girl  in  his  visits  to 
the  Rectory :  it  was  not  easy  to  listen  to  Mr.  Barholm 
while  Anice  and  Fergus  Derrick  sat  apart  and  talked. 
Sometimes  he  wondered  if  the  time  could  ever  come,  when 
his  friend  would  be  less  his  friend  because  he  had  rivaled 
him.  The  idea  of  such  a  possibility  only  brought  him  fresh 
pain.  His  gentle  chivalric  nature  shrank  within  itself  at 
the  thought  of  the  bereavement  that  double  loss  would  be. 
There  was  little  room  in  his  mind  for  the  envies  of  stronger 
men.  Certainly  Fergus  had  no  suspicion  of  the  existence 
of  his  secret  pain.  He  found  no  alteration  in  his  gentle 
f  rien  i. 

Among  the  Reverend  Paul's  private  ventures  was  a 
small  night  school  which  he  had  managed  to  establish  by 
slow  degrees.  He  had  picked  up  a  reluctant  scholar  here, 


98  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRI&8. 

and  one  there, — two  or  three  pit  lads,  two  or  three  girls, 
and  two  or  three  men  for  whose  attendance  he  had 
worked  so  hard  and  waited  so  long  that  he  was  quite 
surprised  at  his  success  in  the  end.  He  scarcely  knew 
how  he  had  managed  it,  but  the  pupils  were  there  in  the 
dingy  room  of  the  National  School,  waiting  for  him  on 
two  nights  in  the  week,  upon  which  nights  he  gave  them 
instruction  on  a  plan  of  his  own.  He  had  thought  the 
matter  so  little  likely  to  succeed  at  first,  that  he  had  en 
gaged  in  it  as  a  private  work,  and  did  not  even  mention  it 
until  his  friends  discovered  it  by  chance. 
,  Said  Jud  Bates  to  Miss  Barholm,  during  one  of  their 
confidential  interviews : 

"  Did  tha  ivver  go  to  a  neet  skoo  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Anice. 

Jud  fondled  Nib's  ears  patronizingly. 

"  I  ha',  an'  I'm  goin'  again.  So  is  Nib.  Hds  getten 
one." 

"  Who  ? "  for  Jud  had  signified  by  a  gesture  that  he 
was  not  the  dog,  but  some  indefinite  person  in  the  village. 

"Th'  little  Parson." 

"  Say,  Mr.  Grace,"  suggested  Anice.   "  It  sounds  better." 

"Aye — Mester  Grace — but  ivverybody  ca's  him  th' 
little  Parson.  He's  getten  a  neet  skoo  P  th'  town,  an'  he 
axed  me  to  go,  an'  I  went.  I  took  Nib  an'  we  lamed  our 
letters ;  leastways  I  larned  mine,  an'  Nib  he  listened  wi' 
his  ears  up,  an'  th'  Par— Mester  Grace  laffed.  He  wur 
na  vext  at  Nib  comin'.  He  said  '  let  him  coom,  as  he  wur 
BO  owd-fashioned. ' ' 

So  Mr.  Grace  found  himself  informed  upon,  and  was 
rather  abashed  at  being  confronted  with  his  enterprise  a 
few  days  after  by  Miss  Barholin. 

"I  like  it,"  said  Anice.      "Joan   Lowrie   learned  to 


JOAN  AND  THE  PICTURE.  99 

read   and  write  in  a  night  school.      Mr.   Derrick   told 


& 
me  so." 


A  new  idea  seemed  to  have  been  suggested  to  her. 

"  Mr.  Grace,"  she  said,  "  why  could  not  I  help  you  \ 
Might  1?" 

His  delight  revealed  itself  in  his  face.  His  first  thought 
was  a  selfish,  unclerical  one,  and  sudden  consciousness 
sent  the  color  to  his  forehead  as  he  answered  her,  though 
he  spoke  quite  calmly. 

u  There  is  no  reason  why  you  should  not — if  you  choose," 
he  said,  "unless  Mr.  Barholm  should  object.  I  need  not 
tell  you  how  grateful  I  should  be." 

"Papa  will  not  object,"  she  said,  quietly. 

The  next  time  the  pupils  met,  she  presented  herself  in 
the  school-room. 

Ten  minutes  after  Grace  had  given  her  work  to  her, 
she  was  as  much  at  home  with  it  as  if  she  had  been  there 
from  the  first. 

"  Hoo's  a  little  un,"  said  one  of  the  boys,  "  but  hoo 
does  na  seem  to  be  easy  feart.  Hoo  does  not  look  a  bit 
tuk  back." 

She  had  never  been  so  near  to  Paul  Grace  during  their 
friendship  as  when  she  walked  home  with  him.  A 
stronger  respect  for  him  was  growing  in  her, — a  new 
reverence  for  his  faithfulness.  She  had  always  liked  and 
trusted  him,  but  of  late  she  had  learned  to  do  more. 
She  recognized  more  fully  the  purity  and  singleness  of 
his  life.  She  accused  herself  of  having  underrated  him. 

"  Please  let  me  help  you  when  I  can,  Mr.  Grace,"  she 
said  ;  "  I  am  not  blaming  anybody — there  is  no  real  blame, 
even  if  I  had  the  right  to  attach  it  to  any  one;  but  there 
are  mistakes  now  and  then,  and  you  must  promise  me 
that  I  may  use  my  influence  to  prevent  them." 


100  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRI&8. 

She  had  stopped  at  the  gate  to  say  this,  and  she  held 
out  her  hand.  It  was  a  strange  tiling  that  she  could  be 
so  utterly  oblivious  of  the  pain  she  inflicted.  But  even 
Derrick  would  have  taken  her  hand  with  less  self -control. 
He  was  so  fearful  of  wounding  or  disturbing  her,  that  he 
was  continually  on  his  guard  in  her  presence,  and  espe 
cially  when  she  was  thus  warm  and  unguarded  herself. 

He  had  fancied  before,  sometimes,  that  she  had  seen 
his  difficulties,  and  sympathized  with  him,  but  he  had 
never  hoped  that  she  would  be  thus  unreserved.  Ilia 
thanks  came  from  the  depths  of  his  heart ;  he  felt  that 
she  had  lightened  his  burden. 

After  this,  Miss  Barholm  was  rarely  absent  from  her 
place  at  the  school.  The  two  evenings  always  found  her 
at  work  among  her  young  women,  and  she  made  very 
steady  progress  among  them. 

By  degrees  the  enterprise  was  patronized  more  freely. 
New  pupils  dropped  in,  and  were  usually  so  well  satisfied 
that  they  did  not  drop  out  again.  Grace  gave  all  the 
credit  to  Anice,  but  Anice  knew  better  than  to  accept  it. 
She  had  been  his  "  novelty  "  she  said  ;  time  only  would 
prove  whether  her  usefulness  was  equal  to  her  power  of 
attraction. 

She  had  been  teaching  in  the  school  about  three  weeks, 
when  a  servant  came  to  her  one  night  as  she  sat  reading, 
with  the  information  that  a  young  woman  wished  to  see 
her. 

"  A  fine-looking  young  woman,  Miss,"  added  the  girl. 
"  I  put  her  into  your  own  room,  as  you  give  orders." 

The  room  was  a  quiet  place,  away  from  the  sounds  of 
the  house,  which  had  gradually  come  to  be  regarded  as 
Miss  Barholm's.  It  was  not  a  large  room  but  it  was  a 
pretty  one,  with  wide  windows  and  a  good  view,  and  as 


JOAN  AND   THE  ' 


Anice  liked  it,  her  possessions  drifted  into  it  until  they 
filled  it,  —  her  books,  her  pictures,  —  and  as  she  spent  a 
good  deal  of  her  time  there,  it  was  invariably  spoken  of 
as  her  room,  and  she  had  given  orders  to  the  servants 
that  her  village  visitors  should  be  taken  to  it  when  they 
came. 

Carrying  her  book  in  her  hand,  she  went  upstairs.  She 
had  been  very  much  interested  in  what  she  was  reading, 
and  had  hardly  time  1  >  change  the  channel  of  her 
thought.  But  when  she  opened  the  door,  she  was  brought 
back  to  earth  at  once. 

Against  the  end  wall  was  suspended  a  picture  of  Christ 
in  the  last  agony,  and  beneath  it  was  written,  "  It  is  fin 
ished."  Before  it,  as  Anice  opened  the  door,  stood  Joan 
Lowrie,  with  Liz's  sleeping  child  on  her  bosom.  She  had 
come  upon  the  picture  suddenly,  and  it  had  seized  on 
iorne  deep,  reluctant  emotion.  She  had  heard  some  vague 
history  of  the  Man  ;  but  it  was  different  to  find  herself  in 
this  silent  room,  confronting  the  upturned  face,  the  crown, 
the  cross,  the  anguish  and  the  mystery.  She  turned 
toward  Anice,  forgetting  all  else  but  her  emotion.  She 
even  looked  at  her  for  a  few  seconds  in  questioning 
silence,  as  if  waiting  for  an  answer  to  words  she  had  not 
spoken. 

When  she  found  her  voice,  it  was  of  the  picture  she 
spoke,  not  of  the  real  object  of  her  visit. 

"  Tha  knows,"  she  said,  "  I  dunnot,  though  I've  heerd 
on  it  afore.     What  is  it  as  is  finished  ?     I  dunnot  quite 
ee.     What  is  it?" 

"  It  means,"  said  Anice  "  that  God's  Son  has  finished 
his  work." 

Joan  did  not  speak. 

"  I  have  no  words  of  my  own,  to  explain,"  continued 


:  J'jV  '[THAT^LASs  a  LOWRI&S. 

Anice,  "  I  can  tell  you  better  in  the  words  of  the  men 
who  loved  him  and  saw  him  die." 

Joan  turned  to  her. 

"  Saw  him  dee  !  "  she  repeated. 

"  There  were  men  who  saw  him  when  he  died,  you 
know,"  said  Anice.  "  The  New  Testament  tells  us  how. 
It  is  as  real  as  the  picture,  I  think.  Did  you  never  read 
it?" 

The  girl's  face  took  an  expression  of  distrust  and  sullen- 
ness. 

"  Th'  Bible  has  na  been  i'  my  line,"  she  answered  ; 
"  I've  left  that  to  th'  parsons  an'  th'  loike ;  but  th'  pictur' 
tuk  my  eye.  It  seemt  different." 

"Let  us  sit  down,"  said  Anice,  "you  will  be  tired  of 
standing." 

When  they  sat  down,  Anice  began  to  talk  about  the 
child,  who  was  sleeping,  lowering  her  voice  for  fear  of 
disturbing  it.  Joan  regarded  the  little  thing  with  a  look 
of  half-subdued  pride. 

"  I  browt  it  because  I  knowed  it  ud  be  easier  wi'  me 
than  wi'  Liz,"  she  said.  "It  worrits  Liz  an'  it  neer 
worrits  me.  I'm  so  strong,  yo'  see,  I  con  carry  it,  an' 
scarce  feel  its  weight,  but  it  wears  Liz  out,  an'  it  seems  to 
me  as  it  knows  it  too,  fur  th'  minute  she  begins  to  fret  it 
frets  too." 

There  was  a  certain  shamefacedness  in  her  manner, 
when  at  la^t  she  began  to  explain  the  object  of  her 
errand.  Anice  could  not  help  fancying  that  she  was  im 
pelled  on  her  course  by  some  motive  whose  influence  she 
reluctantly  submitted  to.  She  had  come  to  speak  about 
the  night  school. 

"  Theer  wur  a  neet  skoo  here  once  afore  as  I  went  to," 
she  said  ;  'I  larnt  to  read  theer  an'  write  a  bit,  but-— but 


JOAN  AND   THE  PICTURE.  103 

theer's  other  things  I'd  loike  to  know.     Tha  canst  under 
stand,"  she  added  a  little  abruptly,  "  I  need  na  tell    yo. 
Little  Jud  Bates  said  as  yo'  had  a  class  o'  yore  own,  an' 
it  comu  into  my  moind  as  I  would  ax  yo'  about  it.     If  I 
go  to  th'  skoo  I — I'd  loike  to  be  wi'  yo'." 

"  You  can  come  to  me,"  said  Anice.  "  And  do  you 
knew,  I  think  you  can  help  me."  This  thought  had 
occurred  to  her  suddenly.  a  I  am  sure  you  can  help  me," 
she  repeated. 

When  Joan  at  last  started  to  go  away,  she  paused  be 
fore  the  picture,  hesitating  for  a  moment,  and  then  she 
turned  to  Anice  again. 

"  Yo'  say  as  th'  book  maks  it  seem  real  as  th'  pictur," 
she  said. 

"  It  seems  so  to  me,"  Anice  answered. 

"  Will  yo'  lend  me  th'  book?  "  she  asked  abruptly. 

Anice's  own  Bible  lay  upon  a  side-table.  She  took  it 
up  and  handed  it  to  the  girl,  saying  simply, 

"  I  will  give  you  this  one  if  you  will  take  it.  It  was 
mine." 

And  Joan  carried  the  book  away  with  her. 


CHAPTER  XIY. 

THE  OPEN  "DAVY." 

MESTER  DERIK 

Th'  rools  is  ben  bioak  agen  on  th'  quiet  bi  them  as  broak  em  afore  I 
naim  no  naimes  an  wudnt  say  nowt  but  our  loifes  is  in  danger  And 
more  than  one,  i  Only  ax  yo'  tu  Wach  out.  i  am  Respekfully 

A  honest  man  wi  a  famly  tu  f ede. 

THE  engineer  found  this  letter  near  his  plate  one  morn 
ing  on  coming  down  to  breakfast.  His  landlady  ex 
plained  that  her  daughter  had  picked  it  up  inside  the 
garden  gate,  where  it  had  been  thrown  upon  the  gravel- 
walk,  evidently  from  the  road. 

Derrick  read  it  twice  or  three  times  before  putting  it  in 
his  pocket.  Upon  the  whole,  he  was  not  unprepared  for 
the  intelligence.  He  knew  enough  of  human  nature — 
such  human  nature  as  Lowrie  represented — to  feel  sure 
that  the  calm  could  not  continue.  If  for  the  present  the 
man  did  not  defy  him  openly,  he  would  disobey  him  in 
secret,  while  biding  his  time  for  other  means  of  retalia 
tion. 

Derrick  had  been  on  the  lookout  for  some  effort  at 
revenge ;  but  so  far  since  the  night  Joan  had  met  him 
upon  the  road,  Lowrie  outwardly  had  been  perfectly  quiet 
and  submissive. 

After  reading  the  letter,  Derrick  made  up  his  mind  to 
prompt  and  decisive  measures,  and  set  about  considering 


THE  OPEN  "DAVY."  105 

what  these  measures  should  be.  There  was  only  one 
certain  means  of  redress  and  safety, — Lowrie  must  be  got 
rid  of  at  once.  It  would  not  be  a  difficult  matter  either. 
There  was  to  be  a  meeting  of  the  owners  that  very  week, 
and  Derrick  had  reports  to  make,  and  the  mere  mention 
of  the  violation  of  the  rules  would  be  enough. 

"  Bah ! "  he  said  aloud.  "  It  is  not  pleasant ;  but  it 
must  be  done." 

The  affair  had  several  aspects,  rendering  it  unpleasant , 
but  Derrick  shut  his  eyes  to  them  resolutely.  It  seemed, 
too,  that  it  was  not  destined  that  he  should  have  reason  to 
remain  undecided.  That  very  day  he  was  confronted 
with  positive  proof  that  the  writer  of  the  anonymoua 
warning  was  an  honest  man,  with  an  honest  motive. 

During  the  morning,  necessity  called  him  away  from 
his  men  to  a  side  gallery,  and  entering  this  gallery,  he 
found  himself  behind  a  man  who  stood  at  one  side  close 
to  the  wall,  his  Davy  lamp  open,  his  pipe  applied  to  the 
flame.  It  was  Dan  Lowrie,  and  his  stealthy  glance  over 
his  shoulder  revealing  to  him  that  he  was  discovered,  he 
turned  with  an  oath. 

"  Shut  that  lamp,"  said  Derrick,  "  and  give  me  your 
false  key." 

Lowrie  hesitated. 

"  Give  me  that  key,"  Derrick  repeated,  "  or  I  will  call 
the  gang  in  the  next  gallery  and  see  what  they  have  to  say 
about  the  matter." 

"  Dom  yore  eyes  !  does  tha  think  as  my  toime  '11  nivver 
coom«" 

But  he  gave  up  the  key. 

"  When  it  comes,"  he  said,  "  I  hope  I  shall  be  ready  to 
help  myself.  Now  I've  got  only  one  thing  to  do.  I  gave 
you  fair  warning,  and  asked  you  to  act  the  man  toward 


106  THAT  LASS  V  LOWRI&S. 

your  fellows.  You  have  played  the  scoundrel  instead, 
and  I  have  done  with  you.  I  shall  report  you.  That's 
the  end  of  it." 

He  went  on  his  way,  and  left  the  man  uttering  curses 
under  his  breath.  If  there  had  not  been  workers  near  at 
hand,  Derrick  might  not  have  gotten  away  so  easily 
Among  the  men  in  the  next  gallery  there  were  some  whc 
were  no  friends  to  Lowrie,  and  who  would  have  given 
him  rough  handling  if  they  had  caught  him  just  at  that 
moment,  and  the  fellow  knew  it. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  week,  the  owners  came,  and 
Derrick  made  his  report.  The  result  was  just  what  he 
had  known  it  would  be.  Explosions  had  been  caused 
before  by  transgressions  of  the  rules,  and  explosions  were 
expensive  and  disastrous  affairs.  Lowrie  received  his  dis 
charge,  and  his  fellow- workmen  a  severe  warning,  to  the 
secret  consternation  of  some  among  them. 

That  the  engineer  of  the  new  mines  was  a  zealous  and 
really  amiable  young  man,  if  rather  prone  to  innovations, 
became  evident  to  his  employers.  But  his  innovations 
were  not  encouraged.  So,  notwithstanding  his  argu 
ments,  the  blast-furnaces  held  their  own,  and  "for  the 
present,"  as  the  easy-natured  manager  put  it,  other 
matters,  even  more  important,  were  set  aside. 

"  There  is  much  to  be  done,  Derrick,"  he  said  ;  "  really 
so  much  that  requires  time  and  money,  that  we  must  wait 
a  little.  i  Borne,  etc.'  " 

"  Ah,  Rome  !  "  returned  Derrick.  "  I  am  sometimes 
of  the  opinion  that  Rome  had  better  never  been  built  at 
*ll  You  will  not  discharge  your  imperfect  apparatus  for 
the  same  reason  that  you  will  discharge  a  collier, — which 
is  hardly  fair  to  the  collier.  Your  blast-furnaces  expose 
the  miners  to  as  great  danger  as  Lowrie's  pipe.  The 


THE  OPEN  "DAVY."  107 

presence  of  either  may  bring  about  an  explosion  when  it 
is  least  expected." 

"  Well,  well,"  was  the  good-natured  response ;  "  we 
have  not  exploded  yet ;  and  we  have  done  away  with 
Lowrie's  pipe." 

Derrick  carried  the  history  of  his  ill  success  to  Anice, 
somewhat  dejectedly. 

"  All  this  is  discouraging  to  a  man,"  said  Derrick,  and 
then  he  added  meditatively,  "  As  to  the  rest,  I  wonder 
what  Joan  Lowrie  will  think  of  it." 

A  faint  sense  of  discomfort  fell  upon  Anice — not 
exactly  easy  to  understand.  The  color  fluttered  to  her 
cheek  and  her  smile  died  away.  But  she  did  not  speak, 
— merely  waited  to  hear  what  Derrick  had  to  say. 

lie  had  nothing  more  to  say  about  Joan  Lowrie  : — 
when  he  recovered  himself,  as  he  did  almost  immediately, 
he  went  back  to  the  discussion  of  his  pet  plans,  and  was 
very  eloquent  on  the  subject. 

Going  home  one  evening,  Derrick  found  himself  at  a 
turn  of  the  road  only  a  few  paces  behind  Joan.  He  had 
thought  much  of  her  of  late,  and  wondered  whether  she 
was  able  to  take  an  utterly  unselfish  view  of  his  action. 
She  had  a  basket  upon  her  arm  and  looked  tired.  He 
strode  up  to  her  side  and  spoke  to  her  without  ceremony. 

"Let  me  carry  that,"  he  said.     "It   is  too  heavy  for 

you." 

The  sun  was  setting  redly,  so  perhaps  it  was  the  sun 
set  that  flung  its  color  upon  her  face  as  she  turned  to  look 
at  him. 

"  Thank  yo',"  she  answered.  ''  I'm  used  to  carry  in' 
such-loike  loads." 

But  he  took  her  burden  from  her,  and  even  if  she  had 
wished  to  be  left  to  herself  she  had  uo  redress,  and  accord- 


108  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRIE8. 

ingly  submitted.  Influences  long  at  work  upon  her  had 
rendered  her  less  defiant  than  she  had  been  in  the  past. 
There  was  an  element  of  quiet  in  her  expression,  such  as 
Derrick  had  not  seen  when  her  beauty  first  caught  his 
attention. 

They  walked  together  silently  for  a  while. 

"  I  should  like  to  hear  you  say  that,  you  do  not  blame 
me,"  said  Derrick,  at  last,  abruptly. 

She  knew  what  he  meant,  it  was  evident. 

"  I  conna  blame  yo'  fur  doin'  what  were  reet,"  she 
answered. 

"  Eight,— you  thought  it  right  ? " 

"  Why  should  na  I  ?     Yo'  couldna  ha'  done  no  other." 

"  Thank  you  for  saying  that,"  he  returned.  "  I  have 
thought  once  or  twice  that  you  might  have  blamed  me." 

"  I  did  na  know,"  was  her  answer.  "  I  did  na  know 
as  I  had  done  owt  to  mak'  yo'  think  so  ill  of  me." 

He  did  not  find  further  comment  easy.  He  felt,  as  he 
had  felt  before,  that  Joan  had  placed  him  at  a  disad 
vantage.  He  so  often  made  irritating  mistakes  in  his 
efforts  to  read  her,  and  in  the  end  he  seldom  found  that 
he  had  made  any  advance.  Anice  Barholrn,  with  her 
problems  and  her  moods,  was  far  less  difficult  to  compre 
hend  than  Joan  Lowrie. 

Liz  was  at  the  cottage  door  when  they  parted,  and  Liz's 
eyes  had  curiosity  and  wonder  in  them  when  she  met  her 
friend. 

"  Joan,"  she  said,  peering  over  the  door-sill  at  Derrick's 
retreating  figure,  "  is  na  that  one  o'  th'  m esters  ?  Is  na  it 
the  Lunnon  engineer,  Joan  ? " 

"  Yes,"  Joan  answered  briefly. 

The  pretty,  silly  creature's  eyes  grew  larger,  with  a 
shade  of  awe. 


THE  OPEN  "DAVY"  109 

"  Is  na  it  th'  one  as  yore  f  eyther's  so  bitter  agen  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  An'  is  na  he  a  gentleman  ?  He  dunnot  look  loike  a 
workin'  mon.  His  cloas  dnnnot  fit  him  loike  common 
foakes.  He  mun  be  a  gentleman." 

"  I've  heerd  foak  ca'  him  one ;  an'  if  his  cloas  fit  him 
reet,  he  mun  be  one,  I  suppose." 

Liz  looked  after  him  again. 

"  Aye,"  she  sighed,  "  he's  a  gentleman  sure  enow.  I've 

seed  gentlemen  enow  to  know  th'  look  on  'em.  Did " 

hesitating  fearfully,  but  letting  her  curiosity  get  the  bet 
ter  of  her  discretion  nevertheless, — "  did  he  court  thee, 
Joan  \ " 

The  next  moment  she  was  frightened  into  wishing  she 
had  not  asked  the  question.  Joan  turned  round  and  faced 
her  suddenly,  pale  and  wrathful. 

"  Nay,  he  did  na,"  she  said.  "  I  am  na  a  lady,  an'  he  is 
what  tha  ca's  him — a  gentleman." 


XY. 


A   DISCOVERY. 

THE  first  time  that  Joan  appeared  at  the  night  school, 
the  men  and  girls  looked  np  from  their  tasks  to  stare  at 
her,  and  whisper  among  themselves  ;  but  she  was,  to  all 
appearances,  oblivious  of  their  scrutiny,  and  the  flurry  of 
curiosity  and  excitement  soon  died  out.  After  the  first 
visit  her  place  was  never  vacant.  On  the  nights  ap 
pointed  for  the  classes  to  meet,  she  came,  did  the  work 
allotted  to  her,  and  went  her  way  again,  pretty  much  as 
she  did  at  the  mines.  When  in  due  time  Anice  began  to 
work  out  her  plan  of  co-operation  with  her,  she  was  not 
disappointed  in  the  fulfillment  of  her  hopes.  Gradually 
it  became  a  natural  thing  for  a  slow  and  timid  girl  to 
turn  to  Joan  Lowrie  for  help. 

As  for  Joan's  own  progress,  it  was  not  long  before  Miss 
Barholrn  began  to  regard  the  girl  with  a  new  wonder. 
She  was  absolutely  amazed  to  find  out  how  much  she  was 
learning,  and  how  much  she  had  learned,  working  on 
silently  and  by  herself.  She  applied  herself  to  her  tasks 
with  a  determination  which  seemed  at  times  almost  fever 
ish. 

"  I  mun  learn,"  she  said  to  Anice  once.  "  I  will"  and 
she  closed  her  hand  with  a  sudden  nervous  strength. 

O 

Then  again  there  were  times  when  her  courage  seemed 
to  fail  her,  though  she  never  slackened  her  efforts. 


A  DISCOVERT.  HI 

"  Dost  tha  think,"  she  said,  "  dost  tha  think  as  I  could 
ivver  learn  as  much  as  tha  knows  thysen  ?  Does  tha 
think  a  workin'  lass  ivver  did  learn  as  much  as  a  lady  ?  " 

"  I  think,"  said  Anice,  "that  you  can  do  anything  you 
try  to  do." 

By  very  slow  degrees  she  had  arrived  at  a  discovery 
which  a  less  close  observer  might  have  missed  altogether, 
or  at  least  only  arrived  at  much  later  in  the  day  of  ex 
perience.  Anice's  thoughts  were  moved  in  this  direction 
the  night  that  Derrick  slipped  into  that  half  soliloquy 
about  Joan.  She  might  well  be  startled.  This  man 
and  woman  could  scarcely  have  been  placed  at  a  greater 
distance  from  each  other,  and  yet  those  half  dozen 
words  of  Fergus  Derrick's  had  suggested  to  his  hearer 
that  each,  through  some  undefined  attraction,  was  veer 
ing  toward  the  other.  Neither  might  be  aware  of  this ; 
but  it  was  surely  true.  Little  as  social  creeds  influenced 
Anice,  she  could  not  close  her  eyes  to  the  incongruous 
— the  unpleasant  features  of  this  strange  situation.  And, 
besides,  there  was  a  more  intimate  and  personal  con 
sideration.  Her  own  feeling  toward  Fergus  Derrick  was 
friendship  at  first,  and  then  she  had  suddenly  awakened 
and  found  it  something  more.  That  had  startled  her,  too, 
but  it  had  not  alarmed  her  till  her  eyes  were  opened  by 
that  accidental  speech  of  Derrick's.  After  that,  she  saw 
what  both  Derrick  and  Joan  were  themselves  blind  to. 

Setting  her  own  pain  aside,  she  stood  apart,  and  pitied 
both.  As  for  herself,  she  was  glad  that  she  had  made  the 
discovery  before  it  was  too  late.  She  knew  that  there 
might  have  been  a  time  when  it  would  have  been  too  late. 
As  it  was,  she  drew  back, — with  a  pang,  to  be  sure  ;  but 
still  she  could  draw  back, 

kt  I  have  made  a  mistake,"  she  said  to  herself  in  secret ; 


112  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRI&S. 

but  it  did  not  occur  to  her  to  visit  the  consequences  of  the 
mistake  upon  any  other  than  herself. 

The  bond  of  sympathy  between  herself  and  Joan  Lowiie 
only  seemed  to  increase  in  strength.  Meeting  oftener, 
they  were  knit  more  closely,  and  drawn  into  deeper  faith 
and  friendship.  With  Joan,  emotion  was  invariably  an 
undercurrent.  She  had  trained  herself  to  a  stubborn  stoi 
cism  so  long,  and  with  such  determination,  that  the  habit 
of  complete  self-control  had  become  a  second  nature, 
and  led  her  to  hold  the  world  aloof.  It  was  with 
something  of  secret  wonder  that  she  awoke  to  the  con 
sciousness  of  the  fact  that  she  was  not  holding  Anice  Bar- 
holm  aloof,  and  that  there  was  no  necessity  for  doing  so. 
She  even  found  that  she  was  being  attracted  toward  her, 
and  was  submitting  to  her  influence  as  to  a  spell.  She 
did  not  understand  at  first,  and  wondered  if  it  would  last ; 
but  the  nearer  she  was  drawn  to  the  girl,  the  less  doubting 
and  reluctant  she  became.  There  was  no  occasion  for 
doubt,  and  her  proud  suspiciousness  melted  like  a  cloud 
in  the  spring  sunshine.  Having  armed  herself  against 
patronage  and  curiosity,  she  encountered  earnest  friend 
ship  and  good  faith.  She  was  not  patronized,  she  was 
not  asked  questions,  she  was  left  to  reveal  as  much  of 
herself  as  she  chose,  and  allowed  to  retain  her  own  secrets 
as  if  they  were  her  own  property.  So  she  went  and  came 
to  and  from  the  Rectory ;  and  from  spending  a  few  min 
utes  in  Anice's  room,  at  last  fell  into  the  habit  of  spend 
ing  hours  there.  In  this  little  room  the  books,  and 
pictures,  and  other  refinements  appealed  to  senses  un 
moved  before.  She  drew  in  some  fresh  experience  with 
almost  every  breath. 

One   evening,   after   a   specially  discouraging   day,  it 
occurred  to  Grace  that  he  would  go  and  see  Joan ;   and 


A  DISCOVERT.  H3 

dropping  in  upon  her  on  his  way  back  to  town,  after 
a  visit  to  a  parishioner  who  lived  upon  the  high-road,  he 
found  the  girl  sitting  alone — sitting  as  she  often  did,  with 
the  child  asleep  upon  her  knee  ;  but  this  time  with  a  book 
lying  close  to  its  hand  and  her  own.  It  was  Anice's 
Bible. 

"  Will  yo'  set  down  ?  "  she  said  in  a  voice  whose  sound 
was  new  to  him.  "  Theer' s  a  chair  as  yo'  con  tak'.  I  con- 
na  move  fur  fear  o'  wakenin'  th'  choild.  I'm  fain  to  see 
yo'  to-neet." 

lie  took  the  chair  and  thanked  her,  and  waited  for  her 
next  words.  Only  a  few  moments  she  was  silent,  and 
then  she  looked  up  at  him. 

"  I  ha'  been  read  in'  th'  Bible,"  she  said,  as  if  in  des 
peration.  "  I  dunnot  know  why,  unless  happen  some  un 
stronger  nor  me  set  me  at  it.  Happen  it  coom  out  o'  set- 
tin  here  wi'  th'  choild.  An' — well,  queer  enow,  I  coom 
reet  on  siimmat  about  childer, — that  little  un  as  he  tuk 
and  set  i'  th'  midst  o'  them,  an'  then  that  theer  when  he 
said  '  Suffer  th'  little  childer  to  coom  unto  me.'  Do  yo' 
say  aw  that's  true  ?  I  iiivver  thowt  on  it  afore, — but 
somehow  I  should  na  loike  to  think  it  wur  na.  Nay,  I 
should  na  !  "  Then,  after  a  moment's  pause — "  I  nivver 
troubled  mysen  wi'  readin'  th'  Bible  afore,"  she  went  on, 
"  1  ha'  na  lived  wi'  th'  Bible  soart ;  but  now — well  that 
theer  has  stirred  me  up.  If  he  said  that — if  he  said  it 
hissen — Ah  !  mester," — and  the  words  breaking  from  her 
were  an  actual  cry, — "  Aye,  mester,  look  at  th'  little  un 
here!  I  munnot  go  wrong — I  mmmot,  if  he  said  it 
hissen  !  " 

He  felt  his  heart  beat  quick,  and  his  pulses  throb.  Here 
was  the  birth  of  a  soul ;  here  in  his  hands  perhaps  lay  the 
rescue  of  two  immortal  beings.  God  help  him  !  he  cried 


114  THAT  LASS  G1  LOWBUFS. 

inwardly.  God  help  him  to  deal  rightly  with  this  woman, 
He  found  wcrds  to  utter,  and  uttered  them  with  courage 
and  with  faith.  What  words  it  matters  not, — but  he  did 
not  fail.  Joan  listened  wondering,  and  in  a  passion  of 
fear  and  belief. 

She  clasped  her  arms  about  the  child  almost  as  if  seek 
ing  help  from  it,  and  wept. 

"  I  munnot  go  wrong,"  she  said  over  and  over  again. 
"  How  could  I  hold  th'  little  un  back,  if  he  said  hissen  as 
she  mun  coom  ?  If  it's  true  as  he  said  that,  I'll  believe  aw 
th'  rest  an'  listen  to  yo'.  '  Forbid  them  not — '.  Nay,  but 
I  wunnot — I  could  na1  ha'  th'  heart." 


CHAPTER  XYI. 


"  CEADDOCK  is  in  serious  trouble,"  said  Mr.  Bariolm  to 
his  wife  and  daughter. 

" i  Owd  Sammy  '  in  trouble,"  said  Anice.  "  How  is 
that,  papa  ? " 

The  Reverend  Harold  looked  at  once  concerned  and 
annoyed.  In  truth  he  had  cause  for  irritation.  The  lau 
rels  he  had  intended  to  win  through  Sammy  Craddock 
were  farther  from  being  won  to-day  than  they  had  ever 
been.  He  was  beginning  to  feel  a  dim,  scarcely  developed, 
but  sore  conviction,  that  they  were  not  laurels  for  his  par 
ticular  wearing. 

"It  is  that  bank  failure  at  Illsbery,"  he  answered. 
"  You  have  heard  of  it,  I  dare  say.  There  has  been  a 
complete  crash,  and  Craddock's  small  savings  being  de 
posited  there,  he  has  lost  everything  he  depended  upon  to 
support  him  in  his  old  age.  It  is  a  hard  business." 

"  Have  you  been  to  see  Craddock  ? "  Mrs.  Barholm 
asked. 

"  Oh  !  yes,"  was  the  answer,  and  the  irritation  became 
even  more  apparent  than  before.  "  I  went  as  soon  as  I 
heard  it,  last  night  indeed  ;  but  it  was  of  no  use.  I  had 
better  have  stayed  away.  I  don't  seem  to  make  much 
progress  with  Craddock,  somehow  or  other.  He  is  su:h  a 
cross-grained,  contradictory  old  fellow,  I  hardly  know 


116  THAT  LASS  0'  LO  WRIST  to. 

what  to  make  of  him.  And  to  add  to  his  difficulties,  lna 
wife  is  so  prostrated  by  the  blow  that  she  is  confined  to 
her  bed.  I  talked  to  them  and  advised  them  to  have 
patience,  and  look  for  comfort  to  the  Fountain-head ; 
but  Craddock  almost  seemed  to  take  it  ill,  and  was  even 
more  disrespectful  in  manner  than  usual." 

It  was  indeed  a  heavy  blow  that  had  fallen  upon  "  Owd 
Sammy."  For  a  man  to  lose  his  all  at  his  time  of  life  would 
have  been  hard  enough  anywhere ;  but  it  was  trebly  hard 
to  meet  with  such  a  trial  in  Riggan.  To  have  money,  how 
ever  small  the  sum,  "  laid  by  i'  th'  bank,"  was  in  Riggan 
to  be  illustrious.  The  man  who  had  an  income  of  ten  shil 
lings  a  week  was  a  member  of  society  whose  opinion  bore 
weight ;  the  man  with  twenty  was  regarded  with  private 
awe  and  public  respect.  He  was  deferred  to  as  a  man  of 
property ;  his  presence  was  considered  to  confer  something 
like  honor  upon  an  assembly,  or  at  least  to  make  it  re 
spectable.  The  Government  was  supposed  to  be  not 
entirely  oblivious  of  his  existence,  and  his  remarks  npon 
the  affairs  of  the  nation,  and  the  conduct  of  the  Prime 
Minister  and  Cabinet,  were  regarded  as  having  something 
more  than  local  interest.  Sammy  Craddock  had  been  the 
man  with  twenty  shillings  income.  He  had  worked  hard  in 
his  youth  and  had  been  too  shrewd  and  far-sighted  to  spend 
hard.  His  wife  had  helped  him,  and  a  lucky  windfall 
upon  the  decease  of  a  parsimonious  relative  had  done  the 
rest.  The  weekly  deposit  in  the  old  stocking  hidden 
under  the  mattress  had  become  a  bank  deposit,  and  by  the 
time  he  was  incapacitated  from  active  labor,  a  decent  little 
income  was  ready.  When  the  Illsbery  Bank  stopped  pay 
ment,  not  only  his  daily  bread  but  his  dearly  valued  im 
portance  was  swept  away  from  him  at  one  fell  blow. 
Instead  of  being  a  man  of  property,  with  a  voice  in  the 


"OWD  SAMMY"  IN  TROUBLE.  H7 

affairs  of  the  nation,  lie  was  a  beggar.  He  saw  himself 
set  aside  among  the  frequenters  of  the  Crown,  his  politi 
cal  opinions  ignored,  his  sarcasms  shorn  of  their  point. 
Knowing  his  poverty  and  misfortune,  the  men  who  had 
stood  in  awe  of  him  would  begin  to  suspect  him  of  need 
ing  their  assistance  and  would  avoid  him  accordingly. 

"  It's  human  natur',"  he  said.  "  No  one  loikes  a  dog 
wi'  th'  mange,  whether  th'  dog's  to  blame  or  no.  Th'  dog 
may  ha'  getten  it  honest.  'Tis  na  th'  dog,  it's  the  mange 
as  f cakes  want  to  get  rid  on." 

"  Providence  ? "  said  he  to  the  Rector,  when  that  portly 
consoler  called  on  him.  "  It's  Providence,  is  it  ?  Well, 
aw  I  say  is,  that  if  that's  th'  ways  o'  Providence,  tlr  less 
notice  Providence  takes  o'  us,  th'  better." 

His  remarks  upon  his  first  appearance  at  The  Crown 
among  his  associates,  after  the  occurrence  of  the  misfor 
tune,  were  even  more  caustic  and  irreverent.  He  was  an 
irreverent  old  sinner  at  his  best,  and  now  Sammy  was  at 
his  worst.  Seeing  his  crabbed,  wrinkled  old  face  drawn 
into  an  expression  signifying  defiance  at  once  of  his  ill 
luck  and  worldly  comment,  his  acquaintances  shook  their 
heads  discreetly.  Their  reverence  for  him  as  a  man  of 
property  could  not  easily  die  out.  The  next  thing  to  being 
a  man  of  property,  was  to  have  possessed  worldly  goods 
which  had  been  "  made  away  wi',"  it  scarcely  mattered 
how.  Indeed  even  to  have  "  made  away  wi'  a  mort  o? 
money  "  one's  self,  was  to  be  regarded  a  man  of  parts  and 
of  no  inconsiderable  spirit. 

•£  Yo're  in  a  mort  o'  trouble,  Sammy,  I  mak'  no  doubt," 
remarked  one  oracle,  puffing  at  his  long  clay. 

"  Trouble  enow,"  returned  Sammy,  shortly,  "  if  you  ca' 
it  trouble  to  be  on  th'  road  to  th'  poor-house." 

"  Aye,  indeed !  "  with  a  sigh.    "  I  should  think  so.   But 


118  THAT  LASS  O1  LOWRI&S. 

trouble's  th'  lot  o'  mon.  Riches  is  deceitful  an'  beauty  is 
vain — not  as  tha  wur  ivver  much  o'  a  beauty,  Sammy ;  I 
canua  mean  that." 

"Diinnot  hurt  thysen  explaining  I  nivver  set  up  fur 
one.  I  left  that  to  thee.  Thy  mug  wus  allus  thy  fortune." 

"  Tha'rt  fretted  now,  Sammy,"  he  said.  "  Tha'rt  fret 
ted,  an'  it  maks  thee  sharp-tongued." 

"  Loike  as  not,"  answered  Sammy.  {t  Frettin'  works 
different  wi'  some  foak  to  what  it  does  wi'  others.  I 
nivver  seed  thee  fretted,  mysen.  Does  it  ha'  th'  same 
effect  on  thee  ?  If  it  happens  to,  I  should  think  it  would 
na  harm  thee, — or  other  foak  either.  A  bit  o'  sharpness 
is  na  so  hard  to  stand  wheer  it's  a  variety." 

"  Sithee,  Sammy,"  called  out  a  boisterous  young  follow 
from  the  other  side  of  the  room.  "  What  did  th'  j  arson 
ha'  to  say  to  thee  ?  Thwaite  wur  tellin'  me  as  he  c  irried 
th'  prayer-book  to  thee,  as  soon  as  he  heerd  th'  news. 
Did  he  read  thee  th'  Christenin'  service,  or  th'  Bui  ial,  to 
gi'  thee  a  bit  o'  comfort  ?  " 

"  Happen  he  gi'  him  both,  and  throwed  in  th'  Lil  any," 
shouted  another.  "How  wur  it,  Sammy?  Let's  hear." 

Sammy's  face  began  to  relax.  A  few  of  the  knots  and 
wrinkles  showed  signs  of  dispersing.  A  slow  twisting  of 
the  features  took  place,  which  might  have  been  looked 
upon  as  promising  a  smile  in  due  course  of  time.  These 
young  fellows  wanted  to  hear  him  talk,  and  "  tak'  off  th' 
parson."  His  occupation  was  not  entirely  gone,  after  all. 
It  was  specially  soothing  to  his  vanity  to  feel  that  his 
greatest  importance  lay  in  his  own  powers,  and  not  alto 
gether  in  more  corruptible  and  uncertain  attractions.  He 
condescended  to  help  himself  to  a  pipe-full  of  a  friend's 
tobacco. 

"  Let's  hear,"  cried  a  third  member  of  the  company. 


"  OWD  SAMMY"  IN  TROUBLE.  H9 

"  Gi'  us  th'  tale  owt  an'  owt,  owd  lad.     Tha'rt  th'  one  to 
do  it  graidely." 

Sammy  applied  a  lucifer  to  the  fragrant  weed,  and 
sucked  at  his  pipe  deliberately. 

"It's  noan  so  much  of  a  tale,"  he  said,  with  an  air  of 
disparagement  and  indifference.  "Yo'  chaps  mak'  so 
much  out  o'  nowt.  Th'  parson's  well  enow  i'  his  way, 
but,"  in  naive  self-satisfaction,  "  I  rnun  say  he's  a  foo', 
an  th'  biggest  foo'  fur  his  size  I  ivver  had  th'  pleasure  o? 
seein'." 

They  knew  the  right  chord  was  touched.  A  laugh 
went  round,  but  there  was  no  other  interruption  and 
Sammy  proceeded. 

"  "Whatten  yo'  lads  think  as  th'  first  thing  he  says  to 
me  wur  ?  "  pufiing  vigorously.  "  Why,  he  cooms  in  an' 
sets*  hissen  down,  an'  he  swells  hissen  out  loike  a  frog  i' 
trouble,  an'  ses  he,  '  My  friend,  I  hope  you  cling  to  th' 
rock  o'  ages.'  An'  ses  I,  '  No  I  dunnot  iiowt  o'  th'  soart, 
an'  be  dom'd  to  yo'.'  It  wur  na  hosp&ible,"  with  a 
momentary  touch  of  deprecation, — "  An'  I  dunnot  say  as 
it  wur  hospitible,  but  I  wur  na  i'  th'  mood  to  be  hospiti- 
ble  just  at  th'  toime.  It  tuk  him  back  too,  but  he  gettin 
round  after  a  bit,  an'  he  tacklet  me  agen,  an'  we  had  it 
back'ard  and  f or'ard  betwixt  us  for  a  good  haaf  hour.  He 
said  it  wur  Providence,  an'  I  said,  happen  it  wur,  an' 
happen  it  wurn't.  1  wur  na  so  friendly  and  familiar  wi' 
th'  Lord  as  he  seemed  to  be,  so  I  could  na  tell  foak  aw  he 
meant,  and  aw  he  did  na  mean.  Sithee  here,  lads,"  mak 
ing  a  fist  of  his  knotty  old  hand  and  laying  it  upon  the 
table,  "that  theer's  what  stirs  me  up  wi'  th'  parson  kind. 
They're  allus  settin  down  to  explain  what  th'  Lord-amoigty's 
up  to  as,  if  he  wur  a  confidential  friend  o'  theirs  as  they 
wur  bound  to  back  up  i'  some  road;  an'  they  mun  drag 


120  THAT  LASS  W  LOWMIET& 

him  in  endways  or  sideways  i'  their  talk  whether  or  not, 
an'  they  wtiimot  be  content  to  leave  him  to  work  fur 
hissen.  Seems  to  me  if  1  wur  a  disciple  as  they  ca'  it, 
I  should  be  ashamed  i'  a  manner  to  be  allus  apologizin' 
fur  him  as  I  believed  in.  I  dunnot  say  for  'em  to  say 
nowt,  but  I  do  say  for  'em  not  to  be  so  dom'd  free  an' 
easy  about  it.  Now  theer's  th'  owd  parson,  he's  getten  a 
lot  o'  Bible  words  as  he  uses,  an'  he  brings  'em  in  by  the 
scruft  o'  th'  neck,  if  he  canna  do  no  better, — fur  bring  'em 
in  he  mun, — an'  it  looks  loike  he's  aw  i'  a  fever  till  he's 
said  'em  an'  getten  'em  off  his  moind.  An'  it  seems  to 
me  loike,  when  he  has  said  'em,  he  soart  o'  straightens 
hissen  out,  an'  feels  comfortable,  loike  a  mon  as  has  done 
a  masterly  job  as  coima  be  mended.  As  fur  me,yo'  know, 
I'm  noan  the  Methody  soart  mysen,  but  I  am  na  a  foo', 
an'  I  know  a  foine  loike  principle  when  I  see  it,  an'  this 
matter  o'  religion  is  a  foine  enow  thing  if  yo'  could  get 
it  straightfor'ard  an  plain  wi'out  so  much  trimmins. 

But "  feeling  perhaps  that  this  was  a  large  admission, 

"  I  am  noan  o'  th'  Methody  breed  mysen." 

"  An'  so  tha  tellt  parson,  I'll  warrant,"  suggested  one 
of  his  listeners,  who  was  desirous  of  hearing  further  par 
ticulars  of  the  combat. 

"  Well,  well,"  admitted  Craddock  with  the  self-satisfac 
tion  of  a  man  who  feels  that  he  has  acquitted  himself 
creditably.  "Happen  I  did.  He  wur  fur  havin'  me 
thank  th'  A'moighty  fur  aw  ut  had  happent  me,  but  I 
towd  him  as  I  did  na  quoite  see  th'  road  clear.  I  dunnot 
thank  a  chap  as  gi'es  me  a  crack  at  th'  soide  o'  th'  yed. 
I  may  stand  it  if  so  be  as  I  conna  gi'  him  a  crack  back, 
but  I  dunnot  know  as  I  should  thank  him  fur  th'  favor, 
an'  not  bein'  one  o'  th'  regenerate,  as  he  ca's  'em,  I  dunnot 
feel  loike  singin' hymns  just  yet;  happen  it's 'cause  I'm 


"OWD  SAMMY"  IN  TROUBLE.  121 

onregenerate,  or  happen  it's  human  natur'.  I  should  ua 
wonder  if  it's  i  pull  devil,  pull  baker,'  wi'  th'  best  o'  foak, 
— foak  as  is  na  prize  foo's,  loike  th'  owd  parson.  Ses  I  to 
him,  *  Not  bein'  regenerate,  I  dunnot  believe  i'  so  much 
grace  afore  meat.  I  say,  lets  ha'  th'  meat  first,  an'  th' 
grace  arterward.' ': 

These  remarks  upon  matters  theological  were  applauded 
enthusiastically  by  Craddock's  audience.  "  Owd  Sammy," 
had  finished  his  say,  however,  and  believing  that  having 
temporarily  exhausted  his  views  upon  any  subject,  it  was 
well  to  let  the  field  lie  fallow,  he  did  not  begin  again.  He 
turned  his  attention  from  his  audience  to  his  pipe,  and 
the  intimate  friends  who  sat  near  him. 

"  What  art  tha  goin'  to  do,  owd  lad  ?"  asked  one. 

"  Try  fur  a  seat  i'  Parly ment,"  was  the  answer,  "  or 
pack  my  bits  o'  duds  i'  a  wheelbarrow,  an'  set  th'  owd  lass 
on  'em  an'  tak'  th'  Highest  road  to  th'  Union.  I  mun  do 
summat  far  a  bein'." 

"  That's  true  enow.  "We're  main  sorry  fur  thee,  Sammy. 
Tak'  another  mug  o'  sixpenny  to  keep  up  thy  sperrets. 
Theers  nowt  as  cheers  a  irion  loike  a  sup  o'  th'  reet  soart." 

"  I  shanna  get  much  on  it  if  I  go  to  th'  poor-house," 
remarked  Sammy,  filling  his  beer  mug.  "  Skilly  an' 
water-gruel  dunnot  fly  to  a  mon's  head,  I'll  warrant.  Aye  ! 
I  wonder  how  th'  owd  lass'll  do  wi'out  her  drop  o'  tea, 
an'  how  she'll  stand  bein'  buried  by  th'  parish  ?  That'll 
be  worse  than  owt  else.  She'd  set  her  moind  on  ridin'  to 
th'  grave-yard  i'  th'  shiniest  hearse  as  could  be  getten,  an' 
wi'  aw  th'  black  feathers  i'  th'  undertaker's  shop  wavin' 
on  th'  roof.  Th'  owd  wench  wur  quoite  set  i'  her  notion 
o'  bein'  a  bit  fashynable  at  th'  last.  I  believe  hoo'd  ha' 
enjoyed  th'  ride  in  a  quiet  way.  Eh,  dear!  I'm  feart 
she'll  nivver  be  able  to  stand  th'  thowt  o'  bein'  put  under 
6 


122  THAT  LASS  0'  LO  WRISTS. 

i'  a  common  style.  I  wish  we'd  kept  a  bit  o'  brass  i'  th' 
owd  stockin." 

"  It's  a  bad  enow  lookout,"  granted  another,  "  but  I 
would  na  gi'  up  aw  at  onct,  Sammy.  Happen  tha  could 
find  a  bit  o'  leet  work,  as  ud  keep  thee  owt  o'  th'  Union. 
If  tha  could  get  a  word  or  two  spoke  to  Mester  Iloviland, 
now.  He's  jest  lost  his  lodge-keeper  an'  he  is  na  close 
about  payin'  a  inon  fur  what  he  does.  How  would  tha 
loike  to  keep  the  lodge  ?  " 

"  It  ud  be  aw  I'd  ax,"  said  Sammy.  "  I'd  be  main 
well  satisfied,  yo'  mebbe  sure ;  but  yo'  know  theer's  so 
mony  lookin'  out  for  a  job  o'  that  koind,  an'  I  ha'  na 
mony  friends  among  th'  quality.  I  nivver  wur  smooth 
tongued  enow." 

True  enough  that.  Among  the  country  gentry,  Sammy 
Craddock  was  regarded  as  a  disrespectful,  if  not  a  danger 
ous,  old  fellow.  A  man  who  made  satirical  observations 
upon  the  ways  and  manners  of  his  social  superiors,  could 
not  be  much  better  than  a  heretic.  And  since  his  associ 
ates  made  an  oracle  of  him,  he  was  all  the  more  danger 
ous.  He  revered  neither  Lords  nor  Commons,  and  was 
not  to  be  awed  by  the  most  imposing  institutions.  He  did 
not  take  his  hat  off  when  the  gentry  rode  by,  and  it  was 
well  known  that  he  had  jeered  at  several  of  the  most 
important  individuals  in  county  office.  Consequently, 
discreet  persons  who  did  not  believe  in  the  morals  of 
"  the  masses  "  shook  their  heads  at  him,  figuratively  speak 
ing,  and  predicted  that  the  end  of  his  career  would  be 
unfortunate.  So  it  was  not  very  likely  that  he  would 
receive  much  patronage  in  the  hour  of  his  downfall. 

Sammy  Craddock  was  in  an  uncomfortable  frame  of 
mind  when  he  left  his  companions  and  turned  homeward. 
It  was  a  bad  lookout  for  himself,  and  a  bad  one  for  "  th' 


"  OWD  SAMMY"  IN  TROUBLE.  123 

owd  lass,"  His  sympathy  for  the  good  woman  was  not  of 
a  sentimental  order,  but  it  was  sympathy  nevertheless.  He 
had  been  a  good  husband,  if  not  an  effusive  one.  "  Th'  owd 
lass  "  had  known  her  only  rival  in  The  Crown  and  his  boon 
companions ;  and  upon  the  whole,  neither  had  interfered 
with  her  comfort,  though  it  was  her  habit  and  her  pleas 
ure  to  be  loud  in  her  condemnation  and  disparagement  of 
both.  She  would  not  have  felt  her  connubial  life  com 
plete  without  a  grie\rance,  and  Sammy's  tendency  to  talk 
politics  over  his  pipe  and  beer  was  her  standard  resource. 

When  he  went  out,  he  had  left  her  lying  down  in  the 
depths  of  despair,  but  when  he  entered  the  house,  he 
found  her  up  and  dressed,  seated  by  the  window  in  the 
sun,  a  bunch  of  bright  flowers  before  her. 

"  Well  now !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Tha  nivver  says  !  What's 
takken  thee  ?  I  thowt  tha  wur  bedrid  fur  th'  rest  o'  thy 
days." 

"  Howd  thy  tongue,"  she  answered  with  a  proper  touch 
of  wifely  irritation  at  his  levity.  "  I've  had  a  bit  o'  com 
pany  an'  it's  chirked  me  up  summat.  That  little  lass  o' 
th'  owd  parson  has  been  settin  wi'  me." 

"  That's  it,  is  it  ?  " 

"  Aye,  an'  I  tell  yo'  Sammy,  she's  a  noice  little  wench. 
Why,  she's  getten  th'  ways  o'  a  woman,  stead  o'  a  lass, — 
she's  that  theer  quoiet  an'  steady,  an'  she's  getten  a  face 
as  pretty  as  her  ways,  too." 

Sammy  scratched  his  head  and  reflected. 

"  I  mak'  no  doubt  on  it,"  he  answered.  "  I  mak'  no 
doubt  on  it.  It  wur  her,  tha  knows,  as  settlet  th'  foight 
betwixt  th'  lads  an'  th'  dog.  I'm  wonderin'  why  she  has 
na  been  here  afore." 

"  Well  now ! "  taking  up  a  stitch  in  her  knitting, 
"  that's  th'  queer  part  o'  it.  Whatten  yo'  think  th'  little 


124:  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRTE'S. 

thing  said,  when  I  axt  her  why  ?  She  says,  c  It  did  na 
seem  loike  I  was  needed  exactly,  an'  I  did  na  know  as 
yo'd  care  to  ha'  a  stranger  coom  wi'out  bein'  axt.'  Just  as 
if  she  had  been  nowt  bat  a  neebor's  lass,  and  would  na  tak' 
th'  liberty." 

"  That's  noan  th'  owd  parson's  way,"  said  Sammy. 

uTh'  owd  parson  ! "  testily ;  "  I  ha'  no  patience  wi' 
him.  Th'  little  lass  is  as  different  fro'  him  as  chalk  is  fro' 
cheese." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

THE   MEMBER   OF   PARLIAMENT. 

THE  morning  following,  Anice's  father  being  called 
away  by  business  left  Riggan  for  a  few  days'  absence, 
and  it  was  not  until  after  he  had  gone,  that  the  story  of 
Mr.  Haviland's  lodge-keeper  came  to  her  ears.  Mr. 
Haviland  was  a  Member  of  Parliament,  a  rich  man  with  a 
large  estate,  and  his  lodge-keeper  had  just  left  him  to  join 
a  fortunate  son  in  America.  Miss  Barholm  heard  this 
from  one  of  her  village  friends  when  she  was  out  witli  the 
phaeton  and  the  gray  pony,  and  she  at  once  thought  of  Sam 
my  Craddock.  The  place  was  the  very  thing  for  him.  The 
duties  were  light,  the  lodge  was  a  pretty  and  comfortable 
cottage,  and  Mr.  Haviland  was  known  to  be  a  generous 
master.  If  Sammy  could  gain  the  situation,  he  was  pro 
vided  for.  But  of  course  there  were  other  applicants, 
and  who  was  to  speak  for  him  ?  She  touched  up  the 
gray  pony  with  her  whip,  and  drove  away  from  the 
woman  who  had  told  her  the  news,  in  a  perplexed  frame 
of  mind.  She  herself  knew  Mr.  Haviland  only  by  sight, 
his  estate  was  three  miles  from  the  village,  her  father  was 
away,  and  there  was  really  no  time  to  be  lost.  She  drove 
to  the  corner  of  the  road  and  paused  there  for  a  moment. 

"  Oh  indeed,  I  must  go  myself,"  she  said  at  last.  "  It  is 
unconventional,  but  there  is  no  other  way."  And  she 
bent  over  and  touched  the  pony  again  and  turned  the  cor 
ner  without  any  further  delay. 


126  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRIE'S. 

She  drove  her  three  miles  at  a  pretty  steady  trot,  and 
at  the  end  of  the  third, — at  the  very  gates  of  the  Ilaviland 
Park,  in  fact, — fortune  came  to  her  rescue.  A  good- 
humored  middle-aged  gentleman  on  a  brown  horse  came 
cantering  down  the  avenue  and,  passing  through  the  gates, 
approached  her.  Seeing  her,  he  raised  his  hat  courte 
ously  ;  seeing  him,  she  stopped  her  pony,  for  she  recog 
nized.  Mr.  Haviland. 

She  bent  forward  a  little  eagerly,  feeling  the  color  rise 
to  her  face. 

It  was  somewhat  trying  to  find  herself  obliged  by  con 
science  to  stop  a  gentleman  on  the  highway  and  ask  a 
favor  of  him. 

"  Mr.  Haviland,"  she  said.  "  If  you  have  a  moment  to 
spare 

He  drew  rein  by  her  phaeton,  removing  his  hat  again. 
He  had  heard  a  great  deal  of  Miss  Barholm.  from  his 
acquaintance  among  the  county  families.  He  had  heard 
her  spoken  of  as  a  rather  singular  young  lady  who  had  the 
appearance  of  a  child,  and  the  views  of  a  feminine  recon- 
structor  of  society.  He  had  heard  of  her  little  phaeton 
too,  and  her  gray  pony,  and  so,  though  he  had  never  seen 
her  before,  he  recognized  her  at  once. 

"  Miss  Barholm  ? "  he  said  with  deference. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Anice.  "  And  indeed  I  am  glad  to 
have  been  fortunate  enough  to  meet  you  here.  Papa  is  away 
from  home,  and  I  could  not  wait  for  his  return,  because  I 
was  afraid  I  should  be  too  late.  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you 
about  the  lodge-keeper's  place,  Mr.  Haviland." 

He  had  been  rather  of  the  opinion  that  Miss  Barholm 
must  be  a  terrible  young  woman,  with  a  tendency  to  model 
cottages  and  night  schools. 

Young  ladies  who  go  out  of  the  ordinary  groove  are 


THE  MEMBER  OF  PARLIAMENT.  127 

not  apt  to  be  attractive  to  the  average  English  mind. 
There  are  conventional  charities  in  which  they  may 
indulge, — there  are  Sunday-schools,  and  rheumatic  old 
women,  and  flannel  night-caps,  and  Dorcas  societies,  and 
such  things  to  which  people  are  used  and  which  are  likely 
to  alarm  nobody.  Among  a  class  of  discreet  persons  these 
are  held  to  afford  sufficient  charitable  exercise  for  any 
well  regulated  young  woman ;  and  girls  whose  plans 
branch  out  in  other  directions  are  looked  upon  with  some 
coldness.  So  the  country  gentry,  hearing  of  Miss  Barholm 
and  her  novel  fancies, — her  teaching  in  a  night  school 
with  a  young  curate,  her  friendship  for  the  daughter 
of  a  dissipated  collier,  her  intimate  acquaintance  with 
ragged  boys  and  fighting  terriers,  her  interest  in  the 
unhappy  mothers  of  nameless  babies, — hearing  of  these 
things,  I  say,  the  excellent  nonenthusiasts  shook  their  heads 
as  the  very  mildest  possible  expression  of  dissent.  They 
suspected  strong-mindedness  and  "reform" — perhaps  even 
politics  and  a  tendency  to  advance  irregular  notions  con 
cerning  the  ballot.  "  At  any  rate,"  said  they,  "  it  does 
not  look  well,  and  it  is  very  much  better  for  young  per 
sons  to  leave  these  matters  alone  and  do  as  others  do  who 
are  guided  wholly  by  their  elders." 

It  was  an  agreeable  surprise  to  Mr.  Havilaiid  to  see 
sitting  in  her  modest  phaeton,  a  quiet  girl  who  looked  up 
at  him  with  a  pair  of  the  largest  and  clearest  eyes  he 
had  ever  seen,  while  she  told  him  about  Sammy  Craddock. 

"  I  want  the  place  very  much  for  him,  you  see,"  she 
ended.  "  But  of  course  I  do  not  wish  to  be  unfair  to  any 
one  who  may  want  it,  and  deserve  it  more.  If  there  is  any 
one  who  really  is  in  greater  need  of  it,  I  suppose  I  must 
give  it  up." 

"  But  I  am  glad  to  tell  you,  there  is  nobody,"  answered 


128  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWR£&8. 

Mr.  TIaviland  quite  eagerly.  "  I  can  assure  you,  Miss  Bar 
holm,  that  the  half  dozen  men  who  have  applied  to  me  are, 
without  a  solitary  exception,  unmitigated  scamps — great 
strong  burly  fellows,  who  would,  ten  to  one,  spend  their 
days  in  the  public  house,  and  their  nights  in  my  preserves, 
and  leave  their  wives  and  children  to  attend  to  my  gates. 
This  Craddock  is  evidently  the  very  man  for  me  ;  I  am  not 
a  model  land-owner,  but  I  like  to  combine  charity  with 
subservience  to  my  own  interest  occasionally.  I  have 
heard  of  the  old  fellow.  Something  of  a  demagogue, 
isn't  he?  But  that  will  not  frighten  me.  I  will  allow 
him  to  get  the  better  of  me  in  political  discussion,  if  he 
will  leave  my  pheasants  alone." 

"I  will  answer  for  the  pheasants,"  said  Anice,  "if  you 
will  let  me  send  him  to  you." 

"I  will  see  him  to-morrow  morning  with  pleasure,"  said 
Mr.  Haviland.  "  And  if  there  is  anything  else  I  can  do, 
Miss  Barholm " 

"  Thank,  you,  there  is  nothing  else  at  present.  Indeed, 
you  do  not  know  how  grateful  I  feel." 

Before  an  hour  had  passed,  Sammy  Craddock  heard  the 
good  news.  Anice  drove  back  to  his  house  and  told  him, 
without  delay. 

"  If  you  will  go  to-morrow  morning,  Mr.  Haviland  will 
see  you,"  she  ended ;  "  and  I  think  you  will  be  good 
friends,  Mr.  Craddock/' 

"  Owd  Sammy  "  pushed  his  spectacles  up  on  his  forehead, 
and  looked  at  her. 

"  An'  tha  went  at  th5  business  o'  thy  own  accord  an' 
managt  it  i'  haaf  an  hour  ! "  he  said.  "  Well,  I'm  dom'd, — • 
axin  your  pardin  fur  takkin  th'  liberty  ;  it's  a  habit  I've 
gotten — but  I  be,  an'  no  mistake." 

He  had  not  time  to  get  over  his  grateful  amazement 


THE  MEMBER  OF  PARLIAMENT.  129 

and  recover  his  natural  balance  before  she  had  said  all  she 
had  come  to  say,  and  was  gone,  leaving  him  with  "  th'  owd 
lass  "  and  his  admiration. 

"  Well,"  said  Sammy,  "  I  man  say  I  nivver  seed  nowt 
loike  it  i'  my  loife.  To  think  o'  th'  little  wench  ha'in'  so 
mich  gumption,  an'  to  think  o'  her  takkin  th'  matter  i'  hoi;  J 
th'  minnit  she  struck  it !  Why  !  hoo's  getten  as  mich  sense 
as  a  mon.  Eh !  but  hoo's  a  rare  un — I  said  it  when  I  seed 
her  amongst  th'  lads  theer,  an'  I  say  it  again.  An'  hoo  is  na 
mich  bigger  nor  six  penn'orth  o'  copper  neyther.  An'  J 
warrant  hoo  nivver  thowt  o'  fillin  her  pocket  wi'  tracks  by 
way  o'  comfort.  Well,  tha'st  noan  ha'  to  dee  i'  th'  Union 
after  aw,  owd  lass,  an'  happen  we  con  save  a  bit  to  gi'thee 
a  graidely  funeral  if  tha'lt  inak'  up  thy  moind  to  stay  to 
th'  top  a  bit  longer." 

6* 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

A   CONFESSION   OF    FAITH. 

THE  Sunday  following  the  curate's  visit  to  Lowrie'ft  cot 
tage,  just  before  the  opening  of  the  morning  service  at 
St.  Michael's,  Joan  Lowrie  entered,  and  walking  up  the 
side  aisle,  took  her  place  among  the  free  seats.  The 
church  members  turned  to  look  at  her  as  she  passed 
their  pews.  On  her  part,  she  seemed  to  see  nobody  and 
to  hear  nothing  of  the  rustlings  of  the  genteel  garments 
stirred  by  the  momentary  excitement  caused  by  her  ap 
pearance. 

The  curate,  taking  his  stand  in  the  pulpit  that  morning, 
saw  after  the  first  moment  only  two  faces  among  his  con 
gregation.  One,  from  among  the  old  men  and  women  in 
the  free  seats,  looked  up  at  him  with  questioning  in  its 
deep  eyes,  as  if  its  owner  had  brought  to  him  a  solemn 
problem  to  be  solved  this  very  hour,  or  forever  left  at 
rest;  the  other,  turned  toward  him  from  the  Barholm 
pew,  alight  with  appeal  and  trust.  He  stood  in  sore  need 
of  the  aid  for  which  he  asked  in  his  silent  opening  prayer. 

Some  of  his  flock  who  were  somewhat  prone  to  under 
rate  the  young  parson's  talents,  were  moved  to  a  novel  com 
prehension  of  them  this  morning.  The  more  appreciative 
went  home  saying  among  themselves  that  the  young  man 
had  power  after  all,  arid  for  once  at  least  he  had  preached 
with  uncommon  fire  and  pathos.  His  text  was  a  brief 


A   CONFESSION  OF  FAITH.  131 

one,— but  three  words, — the  three  words  Joan  had  read 
beneath  the  picture  of  the  dead  Christ :  "  It  is  finished  !  " 

If  it  was  chance  that  led  him  to  them  to-day,  it  was  a 
strange  and  fortunate  chance,  and  surely  he  had  never 
preached  as  he  preached  then. 

After  the  service,  Anice  looked  for  Joan  in  vain  ;  she 
had  gone  before  the  rest  of  the  congregation. 

But  in  the  evening,  being  out  in  the  garden  near  the 
holly  hedge,  she  heard  her  name  spoken,  and  glancing 
over  the  leafy  barrier,  saw  Joan  standing  on  the  side  path, 
just  as  she  had  seen  her  the  first  time  they  had  spoken  to 
each  other. 

"  I  ha'  na  a  minnit  to  stay,'1  she  said  without  any  pre 
lude,  "  but  I  ha'  summat  to  say  to  yo'." 

Her  manner  was  quiet,  and  her  face  wore  a  softened 
pallor.  Even  her  physical  power  for  a  time  appeared 
subdued.  And  yet  she  looked  steady  and  resolved. 

"  I  wur  at  church  this  mornin',"  she  began  again 
almost  immediately. 

"  I  saw  you,"  Anice  answered. 

"  I  wur  nivver  theer  before.  I  went  to  see  fur  mysen 
I  ha'  read  the  book  yo'  gi'  me,  an'  theer's  things  in  it  as  I 
nivver  heerd  on.  Mester  Grace  too, — he  coom  to  see  me 
an'  I  axt  him  questions.  Theer  wur  things  as  I  wanted 
to  know,  an'  now  it  seems  loike  it  looks  clearer.  What 
wi'  th'  pictur', — it  begun  wi'  th'  pictur', — an'  th'  book, 
an'  what  he  said  to-day  i'  church,  I've  made  up  my 
moind." 

She  paused  an  instant,  her  lips  trembled. 

"I  dunnot  want  to  say  much  about  it  now,"  she  said. 
"  I  ha'  not  getten  th'  words.  But  I  thowt  as  yo'd  loike 
to  know.  I  believe  i'  th'  Book  ;  I  believe  i'  th'  Cross  ;  I 
believe  i'  Him  as  deed  on  it !  That's  what  I  eoom  to  say.' 


J32  THAT  LASS  O1  LOWRI&S. 

\ 

The  woman  turned  without  another  word  and  went 
away. 

Anice  did  not  remain  in  the  garden.  The  spirit  of 
Joan  Lowrie's  intense  mood  communicated  itself  to  her. 
She,  too,  trembled  and  her  pulse  beat  rapidly.  She 
thought  of  Paul  Grace  and  wished  for  his  presence.  She 
felt  herself  drawn  near  to  him  again.  She  wanted  to 
tell  him  that  his  harvest  had  come,  that  his  faithfulness 
had  not  been  without  its  reward.  Her  own  labor  she  only 
counted  as  chance-work. 

She  found  Fergus  Derrick  in  the  parlor,  talking  to  her 
mother. 

He  was  sitting  in  his  favorite  position,  leaning  back  in 
a  chair  before  a  window,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his 
head.  His  friendly  intercourse  with  the  family  had 
extended  beyond  the  ceremonious  epoch,  when  a  man's 
attitudes  are  studied  and  unnatural.  In  these  days  Der 
rick  was  as  much  at  ease  at  the  Rectory  as  an  only  son 
might  have  been. 

"I  thought  some  one  spoke  to  you  across  the  hedge, 
Anice  ?  "  her  mother  said. 

"  Yes,"  Anice  answered.     "  It  was  Joan  Lowrie." 

She  sat  down  opposite  Fergus,  and  told  him  what  had 
occurred.  Her  voice  was  not  quite  steady,  and  she  made 
the  relation  as  brief  as  possible.  Derrick  sat  looking  out 
of  the  window  without  moving. 

O 

"Mr.  Derrick,"  said  Anice  at  last,  after  a  few  minutes 
had  elapsed,  "  What  now  is  to  be  done  with  Joan  Low 
rie  ? " 

Derrick  roused  himself  with  a  start  to  meet  her  eyes 
and  find  them  almost  sad. 

"  What  now  ? "  he  said.  "  God  knows  !  For  one,  I  can 
not  see  the  end." 


CHAPTEE  XIX. 

KTBBONS. 

THE  light  in  the  cottage  upon  the  Knoll  Road  burned 
late  in.  these  days,  and  when  Derrick  was  delayed  in  the 
little  town,  he  used  to  see  it  twinkle  afar  off,  before  he 
turned  the  bend  of  the  road  on  his  way  home.  He  liked 
to  see  it.  It  became  a  sort  of  beacon  light,  and  as  such 
he  began  to  watch  for  it.  He  used  to  wonder  what  Joan 
was  doing,  and  he  glanced  in  through  the  curtainless  win 
dows  as  he  passed  by.  Then  he  discovered  that  when  the 
light  shone  she  was  at  work.  Sometimes  she  was  sitting 
at  the  wooden  table  with  a  book,  sometimes  she  was 
laboring  at  some  task  with  pen  and  ink,  sometimes  she 
was  trying  to  use  her  needle. 

She  had  applied  to  Anice  for  instruction  in  this  last 
effort.  It  was  not  long  before  Anice  found  that  she  was 
intent  upon  acquiring  the  womanly  arts  her  life  had  put 
it  out  of  her  power  to  learn. 

"  I'd  loike  to  learn  to  sew  a  bit,"  she  had  said,  and  the 
confession  seemed  awkward  and  reluctant.  "  I  want  to 
learn  to  do  a  bit  o'  woman's  work.  I'm  tired  o'  bein' 
neyther  th'  one  thing  nor  th'  other.  Seems  loike  I've 
allus  been  doin'  men's  ways,  an'  I  am  na  content." 

Two  or  three  times  Derrick  saw  her  passing  to  and  fro 
before  the  window,  hushing  the  child  in  her  arms,  and 
once  he  even  heard  her  singing  to  it  in  a  low.  and  evident- 


134  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRIWS. 

ly  rarely  used  voice.  Up  to  the  time  that  Joan  first  sang 
to  the  child,  she  had  never  sung  in  her  life.  She  caught 
herself  one  day  half  chanting  a  lullaby  she  had  heard 
Anice  sing.  The  sound  of  her  own  voice  was  so  novel 
to  her,  that  she  paused  all  at  once  in  her  walk  across 
ths  room,  prompted  by  a  queer  impulse  to  listen. 

"  It  moight  ha'  been  somebody  else,"  she  said.  "  I 
wonder  what  made  me  do  it.  It  wur  a  queer  thing." 

Sometimes  Derrick  met  Joan  entering  the  Rectory  (at 
which  both  were  frequent  visitors) ;  sometimes,  passing 
through  the  hall  on  her  way  home  ;  but  however  often  he 
met  her,  he  never  felt  that  he  advanced  at  all  in  her 
friendship. 

On  one  occasion,  having  bidden  Anifce  good-night  and 
gone  out  on  the  staircase,  Joan  stepped  hurriedly  back 
into  the  room  and  stood  at  the  door  as  if  waiting. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  Anice  asked. 

Joan  started.  She  had  looked  flushed  and  downcast, 
and  when  Anice  addressed  her,  an  expression  of  conscious 
self-betrayal  fell  upon  her. 

"  It  is  Mester  Derrick,"  she  answered,  and  in  a  moment, 
she  went  out. 

Anice  remained  seated  at  the  table,  her  hands  clasped 
before  her. 

"Perhaps,"  at  last  she  said  aloud, "  perhaps  this  is  what 
is  to  be  done  with  her.  And  then — "  her  lips  tremulous, 
— "  it  will  be  a  work  for  me  to  do." 

Derrick's  friendship  and  affection  for  herself  held  no 
germ  of  warmer  feeling.  If  she  had  had  the  slightest  doubt 
of  this,  she  would  have  relinquished  nothing.  She  had 
no  exaggerated  notions  of  self-immolation.  She  would 
not  have  given  up  to  another  woman  what  Heaven 
had  given  to  herself,  any  more  than  she  would  have  striven 


RIBBONS.  135 

to  win  from  another  woman  what  had  been  Heaven's  gift 
to  her.  If  she  felt  pain,  it  was  not  the  pain  of  a  small  envy, 
but  of  a  great  tenderness.  She  was  capable  of  making 
any  effort  for  the  ultimate  good  of  the  man  she  could  have 
loved  with  the  whole  strength  of  her  nature. 

When   she  entered  her  room  that  ni^ht,  Joan  Lowrie 

O         * 

was  moved  to  some  surprise  by  a  scene  which  met  her  eyes. 
It  was  a  simple  thing  and  under  some  circumstance? 
would  have  meant  little  ;  but  taken  in  connection  with  her 
remembrance  of  past  events,  it  had  a  peculiar  significance. 
Liz  was  sitting  upon  the  hearth,  with  some  odds  and  end? 
of  bright-colored  ribbon  on  her  knee,  and  a  little  straw  hat 
in  her  hand.  She  was  trimming  the  hat,  and  using  the 
scraps  of  ribbon  for  the  purpose.  When  she  heard  Joan, 
she  looked  up  and  reddened  somewhat,  and  then  hung  her 
head  over  her  work  again. 

"  I'm  makin'  up  my  hat  agen,"  she  said,  almost  depre- 
catingly.  "  It  war  sich  a  faded  thing." 

"  Are  yo'  \  "  said  Joan. 

She  came  and  stood  leaning  against  the  fire-place,  and 
looked  down  at  Liz  thoughtfully.  The  shallowness  and 
simplicity  of  the  girl  baffled  her  continually.  She  herself, 
who  was  prompted  in  action  by  deep  motive  and  strong 
feeling,  found  it  hard  to  realize  that  there  could  be  a  sur 
face  with  no  depth  below. 

Her  momentary  embarrassment  having  died  out,  Liz  had 
quite  forgotten  herself  in  the  interest  of  her  task.  She 
was  full  of  self-satisfaction  and  trivial  pleasure.  She 
looked  really  happy  as  she  tried  the  effect  of  one 
bit  of  color  after  another,  holding  the  hat  up.  Joan  had 
never  known  her  to  show  such  interest  in  anything  before. 
One  would  never  have  fancied,  seeing  the  girl  at  this  mo 
ment,  that  a  blight  lay  upon  her  life,  that  she  could  only 


136  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRIE'S. 

look  back  with  shrinking  and  forward  without  hope 
She  was  neither  looking  backward  nor  forward  now, — all 
her  simple  energies  were  concentrated  in  her  work.  How 
was  it?  Joan  asked  herself.  Had  she  forgotten — could 
she  forget  the  past  and  be  ready  for  petty  vanities  and 
follies?  To  Joan,  Liz's  history  had  been  a  tragedy — a 
tragedy  which  must  be  tragic  to  its  end.  There  was  some 
thing  startlingly  out  of  keeping  in  the  present  mood  of 
this  pretty  seventeen-year-old  girl  sitting  eager  and  de 
lighted  over  her  lapf ul  of  ribbons?  Not  that  Joan  be 
grudged  her  the  slight  happiness — she  only  wondered, 
and  asked  herself  how  it  could  be. 

Possibly  her  silence  attracted  Liz's  attention.  Suddenly 
she  looked  up,  and  when  she  saw  the  gravity  of  Joan's 
face,  her  own  changed. 

"  Yo're  grudgin'  me  doin'  it,"  she  cried.  "  Yo'  think  I 
ha'  no  reet  to  care  for  sich  things,"  and  she  dropped  hat 
and  ribbon  on  her  knee  with  an  angry  gesture.  "  Happen 
I  ha'  na,"  she  whimpered.  "  I  ha?  na  gotten  no  reet  to  no 
soart  o'  pleasure,  I  dare  say." 

"Kay,"  said  Joan  rousing  herself  from  her  reverie. 
•'  Kay,  yo'  must  na  say  that,  Liz.  If  it  pleases  yo'  it  conna 
do  no  hurt ;  I'm  glad  to  see  yo'  pleased." 

"  I'm  tired  o'  doin'  nowt  but  mope  i'  th'  house,"  Liz 
fretted.  "  I  want  to  go  out  a  bit  loike  other  foak.  Theer's 
places  i'  Riggan  as  I  could  go  to  wi'out  bein'  slurred  at — 
theer's  other  wenches  as  has  done  worse  nor  me.  Ben 
Maxy  towd  Mary  on'y  yesterday  as  I  was  the  prettiest  lass 
i'  th'  place,  fur  aw  their  slurs." 

"  Ben  Maxy  !  "  Joan  said  slowly. 

Liz  twisted  a  bit  of  ribbon  around  her  finger. 

"  It's  not  as  I  care  fur  what  Ben  Maxy  says  or  what  ony 
other  mon  says,  fur  th'  matter  o'  that,  but — but  it  shows 


RIBBONS.  187 

as  I  need  na  be  so  inich  ashamed  o'  mysen  after  aw,  an' 
need  na  stay  i'doors  as  if  I  dare  na  show  my  face." 

Joan  made  no  answer. 

"An'  yet,"  she  said,  smiling  faintly  at  her  own  train  of 
thought  afterward,  "  I  dunnot  see  what  I'm  complainin' 
on.  Am  I  out  o'  patience  because  her  pain  is  na  deeper  ? 
Surely  I  am  na  wantin'  her  to  mak'  th'  most  o'  her  bur 
den.  I  mun  be  a  queer  wench,  tryin'  to  mak'  her  happy, 
an'  then  feelin'  worrited  at  her  forgettin'  her  trouble.  It's 
well  as  she  con  let  things  slip  so  easy/' 

But  there  came  times  when  she  could  not  help  being 
anxious,  seeing  Liz  gradually  drifting  out  into  her  old 
world  again.  She  was  so  weak,  and  pretty,  and  frivolous, 
so  ready  to  listen  to  rough  flatteries.  Riggan  was  more 
rigid  in  its  criticism  than  in  its  morality,  and  criticism  hav 
ing  died  out,  offense  was  forgotten  through  indifference 

O  O  O 

rather  than  through  charity.  Those  who  had  been  hardest 
upon  Liz  in  her  day  of  darkness  were  carelessly  ready 
to  take  her  up  again  when  her  fault  was  an  old  story  over 
shadowed  by  some  newer  scandal. 

Joan  found  herself  left  alone  with  the  child  oftener 
than  she  used  to  be,  but  in  truth  this  was  a  relief  rather 
than  otherwise.  She  was  accustomed  to  solitude,  and  the 
work  of  self-culture  she  had  begun  filled  her  spare  hours 
with  occupation. 

Since  his  dismissal  from  the  mines,  she  saw  but  little  of 
her  father.  Sometimes  she  saw  nothing  of  him  for 
weeks.  The  night  after  he  lost  his  place,  he  came  into 
the  house,  and  making  up  a  small  bundle  of  his  personal 
effects,  took  a  surly  leave  of  the  two  women. 

"  I'm  goin'  on  th'  tramp  a  bit,"  he  said.  "  If  yo're  axed, 
yo'  con  say  I'm  gone  to  look  fur  a  job.  My  day  has  na 
coom  yet,  but  it's  on  th'  way." 


138  THAT  LASS  0'   LOWRIE'S. 

Since  then  he  had  only  returned  once  or  twice,  and  his 
visits  had  always  been  brief  and  unexpected,  and  at  night. 
The  first  time  he  had  startled  Joan  by  dropping  in  upon 
her  at  midnight,  his  small  bundle  on  his  knob-stick  over 
his  shoulder,  his  clothes  bespattered  with  road-side  rnud. 
He  said  nothing  of  his  motive  in  coming — merely  asked 
for  his  supper  and  ate  it  without  much  remark. 

"  I  ha'  na  had  luck,"  he  said.  "  Luck's  not  i'  my  loine  ; 
I  wur  na  born  to  it,  loike  some  foak.  Happen  th' 
tide'll  tak'  a  turn  after  a  bit." 

"  Yore  f eyther  wur  axin  me  about  th'  engineer,"  Liz 
said  to  Joan  the  next  morning.  "  He  wanted  to  know  if 
we  seed  him  pass  heer  i'  his  road  hoam.  D'yo'  think  he's 
getten  a  spite  agen  th'  engineer,  yet,  Joan  2 " 

"I'm  afeard,"  Joan  answered.  "Feyther's  loike  to 
bear  a  grudge  agen  them  as  put  him  out,  whether  they're 
reet  or  wrong.  Liz "  hesitating. 

"  What  is  it,  Joan  ?  " 

"  Dunnot  yo'  say  no  more  nor  yo'  con  help  when  he 
axes  yo'  about  th'  engineer.  I'm  worritin'  mysen  lest 
feyther  should  get  hissen  into  trouble.  He's  hasty,  yo' 
know." 

In  the  evening  she  went  out  and  left  the  child  to  its 
mother.  She  had  business  to  look,  after,  she  told  Liz,  and 
it  would  keep  her  out  late.  Whatever  the  business  was, 
it  kept  her  out  so  late  that  Liz  was  tired  of  waiting,  and 
went  to  bed  worn  out  and  a  trifle  fretted. 

She  did  not  know  what  hour  it  was  when  she  awakened ; 
voices  and  a  light  in  the  road  roused  her,  and  almost  as 
soon  as  she  was  fully  conscious,  the  door  opened  and  Joan 
came  in.  Liz  raised  her  head  from  the  pillow  to  look  at 
her.  She  was  pale  and  seemed  excited.  She  was  even 
trembling  a  little,  and  her  voice  was  unsteady  as  she  asked^ 


RIBBONS.  139 

"  Has  th'  little  un  been  quiet,  Liz  ? " 

"  Quiet  enow,"  said  Liz.  "  What  a  toime  yo'  ha'  been, 
0 .  an !  It  mun  be  near  midneet.  I  got  so  worn  out  wi' 
waitin'  fur'  yo'  that  I  could  na  sit  up  no  longer.  Wheer 
ha'  yo'  been  ?  " 

"  I  went  to  Riggan,"  said  Joan.  "  Theer  wur  summat 
as  I  wur  obliged  to  see  to,  an'  I  wur  kept  beyond  my 
toime  by  summat  as  happent.  But  it  is  na  quoite  midneet; 
though  it's  late  enow." 

"  Was  na  theer  a  lantern  wi'  yo'  ? "  asked  Liz.  "  I 
thowt  I  seed  th'  leet  fro'  a  lantern." 

"  Yes,"  Joan  answered,  "  theer  wur  a  lantern.  As  I 
wur  turnin'  into  th'  road,  I  met  Mester  Derrick  comin' 
fro'  th'  Kectory  an' — an'  he  walked  alongside  o'  me." 


CHAPTEE  XX. 

THE   NEW    GATE-KEEPER. 

SAMMY  CRADDOCK  made  his  appearance  at  Mr.  Haviland's 
promptly,  and  being  shown  into  the  library,  which  was 
empty,  took  a  seat  and  proceeded  to  regard  the  surround 
ings  critically. 

"Duimot  scald  thy  nose  wi'  thy  own  broth,"  Mrs. 
Craddock  had  said  to  him  warningly,  when  he  left  her. 
"  Keep  a  civil  tongue  i'  thy  head.  Thy  toime  fur  saucin' 
thy  betters  is  past  an'  gone.  Tha'lt  ha'  to  tak'  both  fat  an.' 
lean  together  i'  these  days,  or  go  wi'out  mate." 

Sammy  remembered  these  sage  remarks  rather  sorely,  as 
he  sat  awaiting  the  master  of  the  household.  His  indepen 
dence  had  been  very  dear  to  him,  and  the  idea  that  he 
must  relinquish  it  was  a  grievous  thorn  in  the  flesh.  He 
glanced  round  at  the  pictures  and  statuettes  and  shook  his 
head  dubiously. 

"  A  mon  wi'  so  many  crinkum-crankums  as  he  seems  to 
ha'  getten  '11  be  apt  to  be  reyther  set  i'  polytics.  An'  I'll 
warrant  this  is  na  th'  best  parlor  neyther.  Aw  th'  wall 
covered  wi'  books  too,  an'  a  ornymental  step-lather  to 
climb  up  to  th'  high  shelves.  Well,  Sammy,  owd  lad, 
tha's  not  seen  aw  th'  world  yet,  tha  finds  out.  Theer's  a 
bit  o'  summat  outside  Riggan.  After  aw,  it  does  a  mon 
no  hurt  to  travel.  I  should  na  wonder  if  I  mought  see 


THE  NEW  GATE-KEEPER.  14 J 

things  as  I  nivver  heerd  on  if  I  getten  as  fur  as  th'  Conty- 
nent.  Theer's  France  now — foak  say  as  they  dunnot  speak 
Lancashire  i'  France,  an'  conna  so  much  as  understand  it. 
Well,  theer's  ignorance  aw  o'er  th'  world." 

The  door  opened  at  this  juncture,  and  Mr.  Haviland 
entered — fresh,  florid  and  cordial.  His  temperament  be 
ing  an  easy  one,  he  rather  dreaded  collision  with  anybody, 
and  would  especially  have  disliked  an  uncomfortable 
interview  with  this  old  fellow.  He  would  like  to  be  able 
to  preserve  his  affability  of  demeanor  for  his  own  sake  as 
well  as  for  Miss  Barholm's. 

"  Ah !  "  he  said,  "  Craddock,  is  it  ?  Glad  to  see  you, 
Craddock." 

Sammy  rose  from  his  seat. 

"  Aye,"  he  answered.  "  Sanrll  Craddock  fro'  Riggan. 
Same  to  you,  Mester." 

Mr.  Haviland  waved  his  hand  good-naturedly. 
"Take your  seat  again,"  he  said.     "Don't  stand.     You 
are  the  older  man  of  the  two,  you  know,  and  I  dare  say 
you  are  tired  with  your  walk.     You  came  about  the  lodge- 
keeper's  place  ? " 

"  That  little  lass  o'  th  owd  parson's "  began  Sammy. 

"  Miss  Anice  Barholra,"  interposed  Mr.  Haviland.  u  Yes, 
she  told  me  she  would  send  you.  I.  never  had  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  her  until  she  drove  here  yesterday  to  ask  for  the 
place  for  you.  She  was  afraid  to  lose  time  in  waiting 
for  her  father's  return." 

"  Yo'  nivver  saw  her  afore  ? " 
"  No." 

"  Well,"  rubbing  his  hands  excitedly  over  the  knob  of 
his  stick,  "  hoo's  a  rarer  un  than  I  thowt  fur,  even.  Hoo'll 
stond  at  nowt,  wont  that  little  wench,"  and  he  gave  vent 
to  his  feelings  in  a  delighted  chuckle.  "  I'd  loike  to  ax 


142  THAT  LASS  a  LO  WRIST 8. 

yo',"  he  aided,  "wheer's  th'  other  lass,  as  ud  ha'  had  th' 
plnck  to  do  as  mich?" 

"  I  don't  think  there  is  another  woman  in  the  country 
who  would  have  done  it,"  said  Mr.  Ilaviland  smiling. 
"  We  shall  agree  in  our  opinion  of  Miss  Barholm,  I  see, 
Craddock,  if  we  quarrel  about  everything  else." 

Sammy  took  out  his  flowered  bandanna  and  wiped  his 
bald  forehead.  He  was  at  once  mollified  and  encouraged. 
He  felt  that  he  was  being  treated  with  a  kind  of  respect 
and  consideration.  Here  was  one  of  the  gentry  who 
placed  himself  on  a  friendly  footing  with  him.  Perhaps 
upon  the  whole  he  should  not  find  it  so  difficult  to  recon 
cile  himself  to  his  change  of  position  after  all.  And 
being  thus  encouraged,  a  certain  bold  simplicity  made 
him  address  himself  to  Mr.  Haviland  not  as  a  servant  in 
prospective  to  a  prospective  master,  but  as  man  to  man. 

"  Th'  fact  is,"  he  said,  "  as  1  am  na  mich  o'  a  lass's  mon 
mysen,  and  I  wunnot  say  as  I  ha'  mich  opinion  o'  woman 
foak  i'  general — they're  flighty  yo'  see — they're  flighty  ; 
but  I  mini  say  as  I  wur  tuk  by  that  little  wench  o'  th3 
parson's — I  wur  tuk  by  her." 

"  She  would  be  glad  to  hear  it,  I  am  sure,"  with  an 
irony  so  suave  that  Sammy  proceeded  with  fresh  gravity. 

"  I  inak'  no  doubt  on't,"  dogmatically.  "  I  mak'  no 
doubt  on't  i'  th'  world,  but  I  dunnot  know  as  th'  flattery 
ud  do  her  good.  Sugar  sop  is  na  o'er  digestible  to  th'  best 
o'  em.  They  ha'  to  be  held  a  bit  i'  check,  yo'  see.  But 
hoo's  a  wonderfu'  little  lass— -fur  a  lass,  I  mun  admit. 
Seems  a  pity  to  ha'  wasted  so  mich  good  lad  metal  on  a 
slip  o'  a  wench, — does  na  it  ?  " 

"  You  think  so  ?  "Well,  that  is  a  matter  of  opinion,  you 
know.  However — concerning  the  lodge-keeper's  place. 
You  understand  what  your  duties  would  be,  I  suppose  ? " 


THE  NEW  GATE-KEEPER.  143 

"  Terdin'  th'  gates  an'  th'  loike.  Aye  sir.  Th'  little 
lass  towd  me  aw  about  it.  Hoo  is  na  one  as  misses 
owt." 

"  So  I  see,"  smiling  again,  "  And  you  think  you  can 
perform  them  ? " 

"  I  wur  thin  kin'  so.  It  did  na  stroike  me  as  a  mon  need 
to  be  particular  muskylar  to  do  th'  reet  thing  by  'em.  I 
think  I  could  tackle  'em  wi'out  breakin'  down." 

After  a  brief  discussion  of  the  subject,  it  was  agreed 
that  Mr.  Craddock  should  be  installed  as  keeper  of  the 
lodge  the  week  following. 

"  As  to  politics,"  said  Mr.  Haviland,  when  his  visitor 
rose  to  depart,  "  I  hear  you  are  something  of  a  politician, 
Craddock." 

"  Summat  o'  one,  sir,"  answered  Sammy,  his  evident 
satisfaction  touched  with  a  doubtful  gravity.  u  Summat 
o'  one.  I  ha'  my  opinions  o'  things  i'  gineral." 

"  So  I  have  been  told  ;  and  they  have  made  you  rather 
unpopular  among  our  county  people,  perhaps  ?  " 

"  I  am  na  mich  o'  a  favorite,"  with  satisfaction. 

t(  "No,  the  fact  is  that  until  Miss  Barholm  came  to  me  I 
had  rather  a  bad  idea  of  you,  Craddock." 

This  looked  somewhat  serious,  Craddock  regarding  it 
rather  in  the  light  of  a  challenge. 

"  I'd  loike  well  enow  to  ha'  yo'  change  it,"  he  said, "  but 
my  coat  is  na  o'  th'  turnin'  web.  I  mun  ha'  my  say  about 
things — gentry  or  no  gentry."  And  his  wrinkled  old  vis 
age  expressed  so  crabbed  a  determination  that  Mr.  Havi 
land  laughed  outright. 

"  Oh !  don't  misunderstand  me,"  he  said,  "  stick  to  your 
party,  Craddock.  We  will  try  to  agree,  for  Miss  Barholm's 
sake.  I  will  leave  you  to  your  opinion,  and*  you  will  leave 
me  to  mine — even  a  Member  of  Parliament  has  a  right  to 


14:4  THAT  LASS  0'   LOWRIWS. 

an  opinion,  you  know,  if  he  doesn't  intrude  it  upon  the 
public  too  much." 

Craddock  went  home  in  a  mollified  frame  of  mind.  He 
felt  that  he  had  gained  his  point  and  held  his  ground,  and 
he  respected  himself  accordingly.  He  felt  too  that  his 
associates  had  additional  right  to  respect  him.  It  was  their 
ground  too,  aid  he  had  held  it  for  them  as  well  as  for  him- 
Belf .  He  stopped  at  The  Crown  for  his  midday  glass  of 
ale  ;  and  his  self-satisfaction  was  so  evident  that  his  f rienda 
observed  it,  and  remarked  among  themselves  that  "  th? 
owd  lad  wur  pickin'  up  his  crumbs  a  bit." 

"  Yo're  lookin'  graidely  to-day,  Sammy,"  said  one. 

"  I'm  feelin'  a  trifle  graidelier  than  I  ha'  done,"  he 
answered,  oracularly.  "  Things  is  lookin'  np." 

"I'm  main  glad  to  hear  it.     Tell  us  as  how." 

"  Well," — witli  studied  indifference, — "  it's  noan  so  great 
luck  i'  comparison,  but  it's  summat  to  be  thankfu'  fur  to  a 
irion  as  is  down  i'  th'  world.  I've  getten  the  lodge-keeper's 
place  at  Mr.  Haviland's." 

"  Tha'  nivver  says !  Who'd  a'  thowt  it  ?  How  ivver 
did  that  coom  about  ?  " 

"Friends  i'  coort,"  with  dignity.  " Friends  i'  coort. 
.Ilond  me  that  jug  o'  ale,  Tummy.  Haviland's  a  mon  o' 
discretion,  if  he  is  a  Member  o'  Parlyment.  We've  had 
quoite  a  friendly  chat  this  mornin'  as  we  set  i'  th'  loibery 
together.  He  is  na  so  bad  i'  his  pollytics  after  aw's  said 
an  done.  He'll  do,  upo'  th'  whole." 

"  Yo'  stood  up  to  him  free  enow,  I  warrant,"  said 
Tummy.  "  Th'  gentle  folk  dunnot  often  hear  sich  free 
epeakin'  as  yo'  gi'  'em,  Sammy." 

"  Well,  I  had  to  be  a  bit  independent ;  it  wur  nat'ral. 
It  would  na  ha'  d  ,)ne  to  ha'  turnt  soft,  if  he  wur  th'  mester 
an'  me  th'  mon.  But  he's  a  mon  o'  sense,  as  I  say,  an'  he 


THE  NEW  GATE-KEEPER.  145 

wur  civil  enow,  an'  friendly  enow.  He's  gotten  gumption 
to  see  as  pollytics  is  pollytics.  I'll  tell  yo'  what,  lads,  I'm 
comiri'  to  th'  opinion  as  happen  theer's  more  sense  i'  some 
o'  th'  gentry  than  we  gi'  em  credit  fur ;  they  ha'  not  mich 
but  book  larnin  i'  their  heads,  it's  true,  but  they're  noan  so 
bad — some  on  'em — if  yo're  charytable  wi'  'em." 

"  Who  was  thy  friend  i'  coort,  Sammy  ? "  was  asked 
next. 

Sammy's  fist  went  down  upon  the  table  with  a  force 
which  made  the  mugs  dance  and  rattle. 

"Now  tha'rt  comin'  to  the  meat  i'  th'  egg,"  he  said. 
"  Who  should  tha  think  it  wur  'at  had  th'  good-will  an' 
th'  head  to  tak'  th'  business  i'  hond  ?  " 

"  It  ud  be  hard  to  say." 

"  Why,  it  wur  that  little  lass  o'  th'  owd  parsen's  again. 
Dom'd  if  she  wunnot  run  aw  Riggan  i'  a  twelvemonth.  I 
dunnot  know  wheer  she  getten  her  head-fillin'  fro'  unleea 
she  robbed  th'  owd  parson,  an'  left  his  nob  standin'  empty. 
Happen  that's  what's  up  wi'  th'  ow  i  chap." 
7 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

DERRICK'S  QUESTION. 

DEE  RICK  had  had  a  great  deal  to  thins  about  of  late. 
Affairs  at  the  mines  had  been  troublesome,  as  usual,  and 
he  had  been  often  irritated  by  the  stupidity  of  the  men 
who  were  in  authority  over  him.  He  began  to  feel,  more 
over,  Miat  an  almost  impalpable  barrier  had  sprung  up 
between  himself  and  his  nearest  friend.  When  he  came 
to  face  the  matter,  he  was  obliged  to  acknowledge  to  him 
self  that  there  were  things  he  had  kept  from  Grace, 
though  it  had  been  without  any  positive  intention  of  con 
cealment.  And,  perhaps,  being  the  sensitive  fellow  he 
had  called  him,  Grace  had  felt  that  there  was  something 
behind  his  occasional  abstraction  and  silence,  and  had 
shrunk  within  himself,  feeling  a  trifle  hurt  at  Derrick's 
want  of  frankness  and  confidence. 

Hardly  a  day  passed  in  which  he  did  not  spend  some 
short  time  in  the  society  of  his  Pythias.  He  rarely  passed 
his  lodgings  without  dropping  in,  and,  to-night,  he  turned 
in  on  his  way  from  the  office,  and  fell  upon  Grace  hard  at 
work  over  a  volume  of  theology. 

"  Lay  your  book  aside,"  he  said  to  him.     "  I  want  to  gos 
eip  this  evening,  old  fellow." 

Grace  closed  his  book  and  came  to  his  usual  seat,  smil 
ing  affectionately.  There  was  a  suggestion  of  feminine 
affectionateness  in  his  bearing  toward  his  friend. 

"  Gossip,"  he  remarked.     "  The  word  gossip " 


DERRICK'S  QUESTION.  147 

"  Oh,"  put  in  Derrick,  "it's  a  woman's  word  ;  but  I  am 
in  a  womanish  sort  of  humor.  I  am  going  to  be — I  sap- 
pose,  one  might  say — confidential." 

The  Keverend  Paul  reddened  a  little,  but  as  Derrick 
rather  avoided  looking  at  him  \e  did  not  observe  the  fact. 

"  Grace,"  he  said,  after  a  silence,  "I  have  a  sort  of  con 
fession  to  make.     I  am  in  a  difficulty,  and  1  rather  blame  i 
myself  for  not  having  come  to  you  before." 

"  Don't  blame  yourself,"  said  the  curate,  faintly.  "  You 
• — you  are  not  to  blame." 

Then  Derrick  glanced  up  at  him  quickly.  This  sounded 
so  significant  of  some  previous  knowledge  of  his  trouble, 
that  he  was  taken  aback.  He  could  not  quite  account 
for  it. 

"  What !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Is  it  possible  that  you  have 
guessed  it  already  ? " 

"I  have  thought  so — sometimes  I  have  thought  so— - 
though  I  feel  as  if  I  ought  almost  to  ask  your  pardon  for 
going  so  far." 

Grace  had  but  one  thought  as  he  spoke.  His  friend's 
trouble  meant  his  friend's  honor  and  regard  for  himself. 
It  was  for  his  sake  that  Derrick  was  hesitating  on  the 
brink  of  a  happy  love — unselfishly  fearing  for  him.  He 
knew  the  young  man's  impetuous  generosity,  and  saw 
how  under  the  circumstances,  it  might  involve  him.  Lov 
ing  Anice  Barholm  with  the  full  strength  of  a  strong- 
nature,  Derrick  was  generous  enough  still  to  shrink  from 
his  prospect  of  success  with  the  woman  his  friend  had 
failed  to  win. 

Derrick  flung  himself  back  in  his  chair  with  a  sigh.  He 
was  thinking,  with  secret  irritation,  that  he  must  have  felt 
even  more  than  he  had  acknowledged  to  himself,  since  he 
had,  in  all  unconsciousness,  confessed  so  much. 


148  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRI&S. 

"  You  have  saved  me  the  trouble  of  putting  into  words 
a  feeling  I  have  not  words  to  explain,"  he  said.  "  Perhaps 
that  is  the  reason  why  I  have  not  spoken  openly  before. 
Grace," — abruptly, — "  I  have  fancied  there  was  a  cloud 
between  us." 

"  Between  us !  "  said  Grace,  eagerly  and  warmly.  "  No, 
no !  That  was  a  poor  fancy  indeed ;  I  could  not  bear 
that." 

"  Nor  I,"  impetuously.  But  I  cannot  be  explicit  even 
now,  Grace — even  my  thoughts  are  not  explicit.  I  have 
been  bewildered  and — yes,  amazed — amazed  at  finding 
that  I  had  gone  so  far  without  knowing  it.  Surely  there 
never  was  a  passion — if  it  is  really  a  passion — that  had 
so  little  to  feed  upon." 

"  So  little  !  "  echoed  Grace. 

Derrick  got  up  and  began  to  walk  across  the  floor. 

u  I  have  nothing — nothing,  and  I  am  beset  on  every 
side." 

There  is  something  extraordinary  in  the  blindness  of  a 
man  with  an  absorbing  passion.  Absorbed  by  his  passion 
for  one  woman,  Grace  was  blind  to  the  greatest  of  incon 
sistencies  in  his  friend's  speech  and  manner.  Absorbed 
in  his  passion  for  another  woman,  Derrick  forgot  for  the 
hour  everything  concerning  his  friend's  love  for  Anice 
Barholm. 

Suddenly  he  paused  in  his  career  across  the  room. 

"  Grace,"  he  said,  "  I  cannot  trust  myself ;  but  I  can 
trust  you,  I  cannot  be  unselfish  in  this — you  can.  Tell 
me  what  I  am  to  do — answer  me  this  question,  though 
God  knows,  it  would  be  a  hard  one  for  any  man  to  answer. 
Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  ask  it — perhaps  I  ought  to  have 
decision  enough  to  answer  it  myself  without  troubling 
you.  But  h:>w  can  I  ?  And  you  who  are  so  true  to  your- 


DERRICK'S  QUESTION.  149 

self  and  to  me  in  other  things,  will  be  true  in  this  I  know 
This  feeling  is  stronger  than  all  else — -so  strong  that  I  have 
feared  and  failed  to  comprehend  it.  I  had  not  even 
thought  of  it  until  it  came  upon  me  with  fearful  force, 
and  1  am  conscious  that  it  has  not  reached  its  height 
yet.  It  is  not  an  ignoble  passion,  I  know.  How  could  a 
passion  for  such  a  creature  be  ignoble  ?  And  yet  again, 
there  have  been  times  when  I  have  felt  that  perhaps  it 
was  best  to  struggle  against  it.  I  am  beset  on  every  side, 
as  I  have  said,  and  I  appeal  to  you.  Ought  love  to  be 
stronger  than  all  else  ?  I  used  to  tell  myself  so,  before  it 
came  upon  me — and  now  I  can  only  wonder  at  myself  and 
tremble  to  find  that  I  have  grown  weak." 

God  knows  it  was  a  hard  question  he  had  asked  of  the 
man  who  loved  him ;  but  this  man  did  not  hesitate  to 
answer  it  as  freely  as  if  he  had  bad  no  thought  that  he  was 
signing  the  death-warrant  of  all  hopes  for  himself.  Grace 
went  to  him  and  laid  a  hand  upon  his  broad  shoulder. 

"  Come,  sit  down  and  1  will  tell  you,"  he  said,  with  a 
pallid  face. 

Derrick  obeyed  his  gentle  touch  with  a  faint  smile. 

"  I  am  too  fiery  and  tempestuous,  and  you  want  to  cool 
me,"  he  said.  "  You  are  as  gentle  as  a  woman,  Grace." 

The  curate  standing  up  before  him,  a  slight,  not  at  all 
heroic  figure  in  his  well  worn,  almost  threadbare  garments, 
Bmiled  in  return. 

"I  want  to  answer  your  question,"  he  said,  "and  my 
answer  is  this  :  When  a  man  loves  a  woman  wholly,  truly, 
purely,  and  to  her  highest  honor, — such  a  love  is  the  highest 
and  noblest  thing  in  this  world,  and  nothing  should  lead 
to  its  sacrifice, — no  ambition,  no  hope,  no  friendship." 


CHAPTEK  XXII. 


"I  DVNNOT  know  what  to  mak' on  her,"  Joan  said  to 
Aiiice,  speaking  of  Liz.  "  Sometimes  she  is  i'  sich  sperrits 
that  she's  fairly  flighty,  an'  then  agen,  she's  aw  fretted 
an'  crossed  with  ivverything.  Th'  choild  seems  to  worrit 
her  to  death. " 

"  That  lass  o'  Lowrie's  has  made  a  bad  bargain,  i'  takin' 
up  wi'  that  wench,"  said  a  townswoman  to  Grace.  "  She's 
noan  one  o'  th'  soart  as  '11  keep  straight.  She's  as  shallow 
as  a  brook  i'  midsummer.  What's  she  doin'  leavin'  th' 
young  un  to  Joan,  and  gaddin'  about  wi'  ribbons  i'  her 
bonnet  ?  Some  lasses  would  na  ha'  th'  heart  to  show 
theirsens." 

The  truth  was  that  the  poor  weak  child  was  struggling 
feebly  in  deep  water  again.  She  had  not  thought  of  dan 
ger.  She  had  only  been  tired  of  the  monotony  of  her 
existence,  and  had  longed  for  a  change.  If  she  had  seen 
the  end  she  would  have  shrunk  from  it  before  she  had 
taken  her  first  step.  She  wanted  no  more  trouble  and 
shame,  she  only  wanted  variety  and  excitement. 

She  was  going  down  a  by-lane  leading  to  the  Maxys' 
cottage,  and  was  hurrying  through  the  twilight,  when  she 
brushed  against  a  man  who  was  lounging  carelessly  along 
the  path,  smoking  a  cigar,  and  evidei^Iy  enjoying  the 
balmy  coolness  of  the  summer  evening.  It  was  just  light 
enough  for  her  to  see  that  this  person  was  well-dressed; 


MASTER  LANDSELD8  SON.  151 

and  young,  and  with  a  certain  lazily  graceful  way  of  mov 
ing,  and  it  was  just  light  enough  for  the  man  to  see  that 
the  half-frightened  face  she  lifted  was  pretty  and  youthful, 
But,  having  seen  this  much,  he  must  surely  have  recognized 
more,  for  he  made  a  quick  backward  step. 

"  Liz !  "  he  said.     "  Why,  Liz,  my  girl !  " 

And  Liz  stood  still.  She  stood  still,  because,  for  the 
moment,  she  lost  the  power  of  motion.  Her  heart  gave  a 
great  wild  leap,  and,  in  a  minute  more,  she  was  trembling 
all  over  with  a  strange,  dreadful  emotion.  It  seemed  as 
if  long,  terrible  months  were  blotted  out,  and  she  was 
looking  into  her  cruel  lover's  face,  as  she  had  looked  at  it 
last.  It  was  the  man  who  had  brought  her  to  her  greatest 
happiness  and  her  deepest  pain  and  misery.  She  could 
not  speak  at  first ;  but  soon  she  broke  into  a  passion  of 
tears.  It  evidently  made  the  young  man  uncomfortable 
—perhaps  it  touched  him  a  little.  Ralph  Landsell's  nature 
was  not  unlike  Liz's  own.  He  was  invariably  swayed  by 
the  passing  circumstance, — only,  perhaps  he  was  a  trifle 
more  easily  moved  by  an  evil  impulse  than  a  good  one. 
The  beauty  of  the  girl's  tearful  face,  too,  overbalanced  his 
first  feeling  of  irritation  at  seeing  her  and  finding  that  he 
was  in  a  difficult  position.  Then  he  did  not  want  her  to 
run  away  and  perhaps  betray  him  in  her  agitation,  so  he 
put  out  his  hand  and  laid  it  on  her  shoulder. 

"Hush,"  he  said.  "Don't  cry.  What  a  poor  little 
goose  you  are.  Somebody  will  hear  you." 

The  girl  made  an  effort  to  free  herself  from  his  detain 
ing  hand,  but  it  was  useless.  Light  as  his  grasp  was,  it 
held  her. 

"  Let  me  a-be,"  she  cried,  sobbing  petulantly.  "  Yo' 
ha'  no  reet  to  howd  me.  Yo'  wur  ready  crow  to  let  me 
go  when — when  I  wur  i'  trouble." 


152  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRITF8. 

"  Trouble  !  "  he  repeated  after  her.  "  Wasn't  I  in  trou 
ble,  too  ?  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  did  not  know  what  a 
mess  I  was  in  ?  I'll  own  it  looked  rather  shabby,  Liz,  but 
I  was  obliged  to  bolt  as  I  did.  I  hadn't  time  to  stay  and 
explain.  The  governor  was  down  on  us,  and  there'd 
have  been  an  awful  row.  Don't  be  hard  on  a  fellow,  Lizzie 
You're — you're  too  nice  a  little  girl  to  be  hard  on  a 
fellow." 

But  Liz  would  not  listen. 

"  To'  went  away  an'  left  me  wi'out  a  word,"  she  said  ; 
"  yo'  went  away  an'  left  me  to  tak'  care  o'  mysen  when  I 
could  na  do  it,  an'  had  na  strength  to  howd  up  agen  th' 
world.  I  wur  turned  out  o'  house  an'  home,  an'  if  it  had 
na  been  fur  th'  hospytal,  I  might  ha'  deed  i'  th'  street. 
Let  me  go.  I  dunnot  want  to  ha'  awt  to  do  wi'  yo\  I 
nivver  wanted  to  see  yore  face  agen.  Leave  me  a-be. 
It's  ower  now,  an'  I  dunnot  want  to  get  into  trouble  agen." 

He  drew  his  hand  away,  biting  his  lip  and  frowning  boy 
ishly.  He  had  been  as  fond  of  Liz  as  such  a  man  could 
be.  But  she  had  been  a  trouble  to  him  in  the  end,  and  he 
had  barely  escaped,  through  his  cowardly  flight,  from 
being  openly  disgraced  and  visited  by  his  father's  wrath. 

"  If  you  had  not  gone  away  in  such  a  hurry,  you  would 
have  found  that  I  did  not  mean  to  treat  you  so  badly  after 
all/'  he  said.  "I  wrote  to  you  and  sent  you  money,  and 
told  you  why  I  was  obliged  to  leave  you  for  the  time,  but 
you  were  gone,  and  the  letter  was  returned  to  me.  I 
was  not  so  much  to  blame." 

"Th'  blame  did  na  fa'  on  yo',"  said  Liz.  "I  tell  yo'  I 
wur  turnt  out,  but — it — it  does  na  matter  now,"  with  a 
sob. 

Now  that  she  was  out  of  his  reach,  he  discovered  that 
she  had  not  lost  all  her  old  attractions  for  him.  She  was 


MASTER  LAND  SELL*  S  SON.  153 

prettier  than  ever, — the  shawl  had  slipped  from  her  curly 
hair,  the  tears  in  her  eyes  made  them  look  large  and  soft, 
and  gave  her  face  an  expression  of  most  pathetic  helpless* 
ness, — and  he  really  felt  that  he  would  like  to  defend,  if  not 
clear  himself.  So,  when  she  made  a  movement  as  if  to 
leave  him,  he  was  positively  anxious  to  detain  her. 

"  You  are  not  going  ?  "  he  said.  "  You  won't  leave  a 
fellow  in  this  way,  Lizzie  ? " 

The  old  tone,  half  caressing,  half  reproachful,  was 
harder  for  the  girl  to  withstand  than  a  stronger  will  could 
comprehend.  It  brought  back  so  much  to  her, — those 
first*  bright  days,  her  poor,  brief  little  reign,  her  childish 
pleasures,  his  professed  love  for  her,  all  her  lost  delight. 
If  she  had  been  deliberately  bad,  she  would  have  given  way 
that  instant,  knowing  that  she  was  trifling  on  the  brink  of 
sin  once  more.  But  she  was  not  bad,  only  emotional, 
weak  and  wavering.  The  tone  held  her  one  moment  and 
then  she  burst  into  fresh  tears. 

"  I  wunnot  listen  to  yo',"  she  cried.  "  I  wunnot  listen 
to  yo'.  I  wunnot — I  wunnot,"  and  before  he  had  time  to 
utter  another  word,  she  had  turned  and  fled  down  the 
lane  back  toward  Joan's  cottage,  like  some  hunted  creature 
fleeing  for  life. 

Joan,  sitting  alone,  rose  in  alarm,  when  she  burst  open 
the  door  and  rushed  in.  She  was  quivering  from  head 
to  foot,  panting  for  breath,  and  the  tears  were  wet  upon 
her  cheeks. 

"  What  is  it?"  cried  Joan.  "Lizzie,  my  lass,  what  ails 
yo'?" 

She  threw  herself  down  upon  the  floor  and  hid  her  face 
in  the  folds  of  Joan's  dress. 

"  I — ha' — I  ha'  seed  a  ghost,  or — summat,"  she  panted 
and  whimpered.     "  I—I  -net  summat  as  feart  me." 
7* 


154:  THAT  LASS  0'  LO  WRISTS. 

"  Let  me  go  and  look  what  it  wur,"  said  Joan.  "  Was 
it  i'  th'  lane?  Tha  art  tremblin'  aw  o'er,  Lizzie." 

But  Liz  only  clung  to  her  more  closely. 

"  Kay — nay,"  she  protested.  "  Tha  shall  na  go.  I'm 
feart  to  be  left — an' — an'  I  dunnot  want  jo'  to  go.  Dun- 
not  go,  Joan,  dunnot." 

And  Joan  was  fain  to  remain. 

She  did  not  go  out  into  the  village  for  several  days 
after  this,  Joan  observed.  She  stayed  at  home  and  did  not 
even  leave  the  cottage.  She  was  not  like  herself,  either. 
Up  to  that  time  she  had  seemed  to  be  forgetting  her  trouble, 
and  gradually  slipping  back  into  the  enjoyments  she  had 
known  before  she  had  gone  away.  Now  a  cloud  seemed 
to  be  upon  her.  She  was  restless  and  nervous,  or  listless 
and  unhappy.  She  was  easily  startled,  and  now  and  then 
Joan  fancied  that  she  was  expecting  something  unusual 
to  happen.  She  lost  color  and  appetite,  and  the  child's 
presence  troubled  her  more  than  usual.  Once,  when  it  set 
up  a  sudden  cry,  she  started,  and  the  next  moment  burst 
into  tears. 

"Why,  Liz!"  said  Joan,  almost  tenderly.  "  Yo'  mun 
be  ailin',  or  yo'  hannot  getten  o'er  yo're  fright  yet.  Yo're 
not  yoreseii  at  aw.  What  a  simple  little  lass  yo'  are  to  be 
feart  by  a  boggart  i'  that  way." 

l(  I  dunnot  know  what's  the  matter  wi'  me,"  said  Liz,  "I 
dunnot  feel  reet,  somehow.  Happen  I  shall  get  o'er  it  i' 
toime." 

But  though  she  recovered  herself  somewhat,  she  was 
not  the  same  girl  again.  And  this  change  in  her  it  was 
that  made  Joan  open  her  heart  to  Anice.  She  saw  that 
something  was  wrong,  and  noted  a  new  influence  at  work^ 
even  after  the  girl  began  to  go  out  again  and  resume  her 
visits  to  hsr  acquaintances.  Then,  alternating  with  fret- 


MASTER  LANDSELDS  SON.  155 

ful  listlessness,  were  tremulous  high  spirits  and  feverish 
fits  of  gayety. 

There  came  a  day,  however,  when  Joan  gained  a  clue  to 
the  meaning  of  this  change,  though  never  from  her  first 
recognition  of  it  until  the  end  did  she  comprehend  it 
fully.  Perhaps  she  was  wholly  unconscious  of  what  nar 
rower  natures  experience.  Then,  too,  she  had  little  oppor 
tunity  for  hearing  gossip.  She  had  no  visitors,  and  she 
was  kept  much  at  home  with  the  child,  who  was  not 
healthy,  and  who,  during  the  summer  months,  was  con 
stantly  feeble  and  ailing.  Grace,  hearing  nothing  more 
after  the  first  hint  of  suspicion,  was  so  far  relieved  that 
he  thought  it  best  to  spare  Joan  the  pain  of  being  stung 
by  it. 

But  there  came  a  piece  of  news  to  Joan  that  troubled 
her. 

"  There's  a  young  sprig  o'  one  o'  th'  managers  stayin'  aV 
th'  '  Queen's  Arms,' "  remarked  a  pit  woman  one  morn 
ing.  "  He's  a  foine  young  chap,  too — dresses  up  loike  a 
tailor's  dummy,  an'  looks  as  if  he'd  stepped  reet  square 
out  o'  a  bandbox.  He's  a  son  o'  owd  Landsell's." 

Joan  stopped  a  moment  at  her  work. 

"  Are  yo'  sure  o'  that  ? "  she  asked,  anxiously. 

"  Sure  he's  Mester  Landsell's  son  ?  Aye,  to  be  sure  it's 
him.  My  mester  towd  me  hissen." 

This  was  Liz's  trouble,  then. 

At  noon  Joan  went  home  full  of  self-reproach  because 
sometimes  her  patience  had  failed  her.  Liz  looked  xip 
with  traces  of  tears  in  her  eyes,  when  Joan  came  in. 
Joan  did  not  hesitate.  She  only  thought  of  giving  her 
comfort.  She  went  and  sat  down  in  a  chair  near  by — she 
drew  the  curly  head  down  upon  her  lap,  and  laid  her 
hand  on  it  caressingly. 


156  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRI&8. 

"  Lizzie,  lass,"  she  said ;  "  3^0'  need  na  ha'  been  afeard  tc 
tell  me." 

There  was  a  quick  little  pant  from  Liz,  and  then  still 
ness. 

"  I  heard  about  it  to-day,"  Joan  went  on,  "  an'  I  did  na 
wonder  as  yo'  wur  full  o'  trouble.  It  brings  it  back,  Liz, 
1  dare  say/' 

The  pant  became  a  sob — the  sob  broke  into  a  low  cry. 

<;  Oh,  Joan  !  Joan  !  dunnot  blame  me — dunnot.  It  wui 
na  my  fault  as  he  coonij  an' — an'  I  cauna  bear  it." 

Even  then  Joan  had  no  suspicion.  To  her  mind  it  was 
quite  natural  that  such  a  cry  of  pain  should  be  wrung 
from  the  weak  heart.  Her  hand  lost  its  steadiness  as  she 
touched  the  soft,  tangled  hair  more  tenderly  than  before. 

"  He  wur  th'  ghost  as  yo'  seed  i'  th'  lane,"  she  said. 
"  Wur  na  he  ? " 

"  Aye,"  wept  Liz,  "  he  wur,  an'  1  dare  na  tell  yo'.  It 
seemit  loike  it  tuk  away  my  breath,  an  aw  my  heart  owt  o' 
me.  Nivver  yo'  blame  me,  Joan — nivver  yo'  be  hard  on 
me — ivverything  else  is  hard  enow.  I  thowt  I  wur  safe 
wi'  yo' — I  did  fur  sure." 

"  An'  yo'  are  safe,"  Joan  answered.  "  Dost  tha'  think 
I  would  turn  agen  thee  ?  Nay,  lass ;  tha'rt  as  safe  as  th' 
choild  is,  when  I  hold  it  i'  my  breast.  I  ha'  a  pain  o'  my 
own,  Liz,  as'll  nivver  heal,  an'  I'd  loike  to  know  as  I'd  held 
out  my  hond  to  them  as  theer  is  healin'  fur.  I'd  thank  God 
fur  th'  chance — poor  lass — poor  lass — poor  lass  ! "  And 
fihe  bent  down  and  kissed  her  again  and  again. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 


THE  night  school  gained  ground  steadily.  The  number 
of  scholars  was  constantly  on  the  increase,  so  much  so, 
indeed,  that  Grace  had  his  hands  inconveniently  full. 

"  They  have  dull  natures,  these  people,"  said  the  Rev 
erend  Harold  ;  "  and  in  the  rare  cases  where  they  are  not 
dull,  they  are  stubborn.  Absolutely,  I  find  it  quite  trying 
to  face  them  at  times,  and  it  is  not  my  fortune  to  find  it 
difficult  to  reach  people,  as  a  rule.  They  seem  to  have 
made  up  their  minds  beforehand  to  resent  what  I  am 
going  to  say.  It  is  most  unpleasant.  Grace  has  been 
working  among  them  so  long  that,  I  suppose,  they  are  used 
to  his  methods ;  he  has  learned  to  place  himself  on  a  level 
with  them,  so  to  speak.  I  notice  they  listen  to,  and  seem 
to  understand  him.  The  fact  is,  I  have  an  idea  that  that 
sort  of  thing  is  Grace's  forte.  He  is  not  a  brilliant  fellow, 
and  will  never  make  any  particular  mark,  but  he  has  an 
odd  perseverance  which  carries  him  along  with  a  certain 
class.  Riggan  suits  him,  I  think.  He  has  dropped  into 
the  right  groove." 

Jud  Bates  and  "  th'  best  tarrier  i'  Riggan"  were  among 
the  most  faithful  attendants.  The  lad's  fancy  for  Anice 
had  extended  to  Grace.  Grace's  friendly  toleration  of 
Nib  had  done  much  for  him.  Nib  always  appeared  with 
his  master,  and  his  manner  was  as  composed  and  decorous 
as  if  rats  were  subjects  foreign  to  his  meditations.  Hia 


158  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWR1SPS. 

part  it  was  to  lie  at  Jud's  feet,  his  nose  between  his  paws, 
his  eyes  twinkling  sagaciously  behind  his  shaggy  eyebrows, 
while  occasionally,  as  a  token  of  approval,  he  wagged  his 
tail.  Once  or  twice,  during  a  fitful  slumber,  he  had  been 
known  to  give  vent  to  his  feelings  in  a  sharp  bark,  but  he* 
never  failed  to  awaken  immediately,  with  every  appear 
ance  of  the  deepest  abasement  and  confusion  at  the 
unconscious  transgression. 

During  a  visit  to  the  rectory  one  day,  Jud's  eyes  fell  upon 
a  book  which  lay  on  Anice's  table.  It  was  full  of  pictures 
— illustrations  depicting  the  adventures  and  vicissitudes 
of  a  fortunate  unfortunate,  whose  desert  island  has  been 
the  paradise  of  thousands;  whose  goat-skin  habiliments 
have  been  more  worthy  of  envy  than  kingly  purple ;  whose 
hairy  cap  has  been  more  significant  of  monarchy  than 
any  crown.  For  the  man  who  wore  these  savage  garments 
has  reigned  supreme  in  realms  of  romance,  known  only  in 
their  first  beauty  to  boyhood's  ecstatic  belief. 

Jud  put  out  his  hand,  and  drawing  the  gold  and  crimson 
snare  toward  him,  opened  it.  When  Anice  came  into  the 
room  she  found  him  poring  over  it.  His  ragged  cap  lay 
with  Nib,  at  his  feet,  his  face  was  in  a  glow,  his  hair  was 
pushed  straight  up  on  his  head,  both  elbows  were  resting 
on  the  table.  He  was  spelling  his  way  laboriously,  but  ex 
citedly,  through  the  story  of  the  foot-print  on  the  sand. 
Anice  waited  a  moment,  and  then  spoke : 

"Jud,*'  she  said,  "  when  you  can  read  I  will  give  you 
'  Robinson  Crusoe.' " 

In  less  than  six  months  she  was  called  upon  to  redeem 
her  promise. 

This  occurred  a  few  weeks  after  Craddock  had  been 
established  at  the  lodge  at  the  Haviland  gates.  The  day 
Anice  gave  Jud  his  well-earned  reward,  she  had  a  package 


"  CANNYBLES."  159 

to  send  t:>  Mrs.  Craddock,  and  when  the  boy  came  for  the 
book,  she  employed  him  as  a  messenger  to  the  park. 

"  If  you  will  take  these  things  to  Mrs.  Craddock,  Jud,  I 
shall  be  much  obliged,"  she  said;  "  and  please  tell  her  that 
I  will  drive  out  to  see  her  to-morrow." 

Jud  accepted  the  mission  readily.  With  Nib  at  his  heels, 
and  "  Robinson  Crusoe  "  under  his  arm,  three  miles  were 
a  trivial  matter.  He  trudged  off,  whistling  with  keen 
delight.  As  he  went  along  he  could  fortify  himself  with 
an  occasional  glance  at  the  hero  and  his  man  Friday. 
What  would  he  not  have  sacrificed  at  the  prospect  of 
being  cast  with  Nib  upon  a  desert  island  ? 

"  Owd  Sammy  "  sat  near  the  chimney-corner  smoking 
his  pipe,  and  making  severe  mental  comments  upon  the 
conduct  of  Parliament,  then  in  session,  of  whose  erratic 
proceedings  he  was  reading  an  account  in  a  small  but 
highly  seasoned  newspaper.  Sammy  shook  his  head  omi 
nously  over  the  peppery  reports,  but  feeling  it  as  well  to 
reserve  his  opinions  for  a  select  audience  at  The  Crown, 
allowed  Mrs.  Craddock  to  perform  her  household  tasks 
unmolested. 

Hearing  Jud  at  the  door,  he  turned  his  head. 

"  It's  yo',  is  it  ? "  he  said.  "  Tha  con  coom  in.  What's 
browten  ? " 

"Summat  fur  th'  missis  fro'  th'  rectory,"  Jud  answered, 
producing  his  parcel ;  "  Miss  Anice  sent  me  wi'  it." 

"  Tak'  it  to  th'  owd  lass,  then,"  said  Sammy.  "  Tak'  it 
to  her.  Tha'lt  find  her  in  th'  back  kitchen." 

Having  done  as  he  was  bidden,  Jud  came  back  again  to 
the  front  room.  Mrs.  Craddock  had  hospitably  provided 
him  with  a  huge  sandwich  of  bread  and  cheese,  and  Nib 
followed  him  with  expectant  eyes. 

"  Sit   thee  down,  lad,"  said    Sammy,  condescendingly. 


160  THAT  LASS  0>  LOWRIE'S. 

"  Sit  thee  down,  tha'st  getten  a  walk  both  afore  and  behind 
thee.  What  book  'st  getten  under  thy  arm  ?  " 

Jud  regarded  the  volume  with  evident  pride  and  exul 
tation. 

"It's  E-obyson  Crusoe,  that  theer  is,"  he  answered. 

Sammy  shook  his  head  dubiously. 

"Dunnot  know  as  I  ivver  heerd  on  him.  He's  noan 
scripter,  is  he  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Jud,  repelling  the  insinuation  stoutly  ;  "  he 
is  na." 

"  Hond  him  over,  an'  lets  ha'  a  look  at  him." 

Jud  advanced. 

"  Theer  s  picters  in  it,"  he  commented  eagerly.  "  Theer's 
one  at  th'  front.  That  theer  un,"  pointing  to  the  frontis 
piece,  "  that  theer's  him." 

Sammy  gave  it  a  sharp  glance,  then  another,  and  then 
held  the  book  at  arm's  length,  regarding  Robinson's  goat 
skin  habiliments  over  the  rims  of  his  spectacles. 

"  Well,  I'm  dom'd,"  he  exclaimed.  "  I'm  dom'd,  if  I 
would  na  loike  to  see  that  chap  i'  Riggan !  What's  th* 
felly  getten  on  ? " 

"  He's  dressed  i'  goat-skins.  He  wur  cast  upon  a  desert 
island,  an'  had  na'  owt  else  to  wear." 

"  I  tliowt  he  must  ha'  been  reduced  i'  circumstances,  or 
he'd  nivver  ha  turnt  out  i'  that  rig  'less  he  thowt  more  o' 
comfort  than  appearances.'  What  wur  he  doin'  a-casting 
hissen  on  a  desert  island  ?  Wur  he  reet  i'  th'  upper 
story  3 " 

•'  He  wur  shipwrecked,"  triumphantly.  "  Th'  sea  drift 
ed  him  to  th'  shore,  an'  he  built  hissen  a  hut,  an'  gettin' 
goats  an'  birds,  an' — an'  aw  sorts — an' — it's  the  graideliest 
bock  tha  ivver  seed.  Miss  Anice  gave  it  me." 

"  Has  she  read  it  hersen  ?  " 


"  CANNYBLES."  161 

"  Aye,  it  wur  her  as  tellt  me  most  on  it." 

Sammy  turned  the  volume  over,  and  looked  at  the 
back  of  it,  at  the  edges  of  the  leaves,  at  the  gilt-lettered 
title. 

"  I  would  na  be  surprised,"  he  observed  with  oracular 
amiability.  "  I  would  na  be  surprised — if  that's  th'  case 
— as  theer's  summat  in  it." 

"  That  as  I've  towd  thee  is  nowt  to  th'  rest  on  it," 
answered  Jud  in  enthusiasm.  "  Theer's  a  mon  ca'd  Friday, 
an'  a  lot  o'  fellys  as  eats  each  other — cannybles  they  ca' 
'em " 

"Look  tha  here,"  interposed  Craddock,  his  curiosity  and 
interest  getting  the  better  of  him.  "  Sit  thee  down  and 
read  a  bit.  That's  something  as  I  nivver  heard  on — 
cannybles  an'  th'  loike.  Pick  thee  th'  place,  an'  let's  hear 
summat  about  th'  cannybles  if  tha  has  na  th'  toime  to  do 
no  more." 

Jud  needed  no  second  invitation.  Sharing  the  general 
opinion  that "  Owd  Sammy  "  was  a  man  of  mark,  he  could 
not  help  feeling  that  Crusoe  was  complimented  by  his 
attention.  He  picked  out  his  place,  as  his  hearer  had 
advised  him,  and  plunged  into  the  details  of  the  cannibal 
feast  with  pride  and  determination.  Though  his  elocution 
may  have  been  of  a  style  peculiar  to  beginners  and  his 
pronunciation  occasionally  startling  in  its  originality,  still 
Sammy  gathered  the  gist  of  the  story.  He  puffed  at  his 
pipe  so  furiously  that  the  foreign  gentleman's  turban ed 
head  was  emptied  with  amazing  rapidity,  and  it  was  nec 
essary  to  refill  it  two  or  three  times ;  he  rubbed  his  cordu 
roy  knees  with  both  hands,  occasionally  he  slapped  one 
of  them  in  the  intensity  of  his  interest,  and  when  Jud 
stopped  he  could  only  express  himself  in  his  usual  em 
phatic  formula — 


162  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRIE'S. 

"  Well,  I  am  dom'd.  An'  tha  says,  as  th'  chap's  name 
wur  Robyson  ? " 

"  Aye,  Robyson  Crusoe." 

"  Well,  I  mun  say,  as  I'd  ha'  loike  to  ha'  knowed  him. 
I  did  know  a  mon  by  th'  name  o'  Robyson  onct,  but  it 
could  na  ha'  been  him,  fur  he  wur  na  mich  o'  a  chap.  If 
he'd  a  bin  cast  o'  a  desert  island,  he  would  na  had  th' 
gumption  to  do  aw  that  theer — Jem  Robyson  could  na. 
It  could  na  ha'  been  him — an'  besides,  he  could  na  ha' 
writ  it  out,  as  that  theer  felly's  done." 

There  was  a  pause,  in  which  Craddock  held  his  pipe  in 
his  hand  reflectively — shaking  his  head  once  more. 

"  Canny bles  an'  th'  loike  too,"  he  said.  "  Tlieer's  a 
soight  o'  things  as  a  mon  does  na  hear  on.  Why,  I  niv- 
ver  heard  o'  cannybles  my  sen,  an'  I  am  na  considert  igno 
rant  by  th'  most  o'  foak."  Then,  as  Jud  rose  to  go,  "  Art 
tha  fur  goin'  3 "  he  asked.  "  Well,  I  mun  say  as  I'd  loike  to 
hear  summat  more  about  Robyson ;  but,  if  tha  mun  go, 
tha  mun,  I  suppose.  Sithee  here,  could  tha  coom  again  an' 
bring  him  wi'  thee  ? " 

"  I  mowt ;  I  dmma  moind  the  walk." 

"Then  thee  do  it,"  getting  up  to  accompany  him  to  the 
gates.  "  An'  I'll  gi'e  thee  a  copper  now  an'  then  to  pay 
thee.  Theer's  summat  i'  a  book  o'  that  soart.  Coom  thee 
again  as  soon  as  tha  con,  an'  we'll  go  on  wi'  the  canny 
bles." 

"  What's  th'  lad  been  readin'  to  thee,  Sammy  ?  "  asked 
Mrs.  Craddock  entering  the  room,  after  Jud  had  taken  his 
departure. 

"A  bit  o'  litterytoor.  I  dunnot  know  as  tha'd  know 
what  th'  book  wur,  if  I  towd  thee.  Tha  nivver  wur  mich 
o'  a  hand  at  litterytoor.  He  wur  readin'  Robyson  Cruse «.'' 

"Not  a  tract,  sure-ly?" 


•"  CANNYBLES."  163 

"  Nay,  that  it  wur  na  !  It  wur  th'  dairy  o'  a  mon  whc 
wur  cast  upo'  a  desert  island  i'  th'  midst  o'  cannybles." 

"The  dairy?" 

"  Nay,  lass,  nay,"  testily,  "  not  i'  th'  sense  yo'  mean.. 
Th'  dairy  wur  o'  th'  litterairy  soart.  He  wur  a  litterairy 
mon." 

"  Cannybles  an'  th'  loike,"  Sammy  said  to  himself  several 
times  during  the  evening.  "  Cannybles  an'  th'  loike. 
Theer's  a  power  o'  things  i'  th'  universe." 

He  took  his  pipe  after  supper  and  went  out  for  a  stroll. 
Mental  activity  made  him  restless.  The  night  was  a  bright 
one.  A  yellow  harvest  moon  was  rising  slowly  above  the 
tree-tops,  and  casting  a  mellow  light  upon  the  road 
stretching  out  before  him.  He  passed  through  the  gates 
and  down  the  road  at  a  leisurely  pace,  and  had  walked  a 
hundred  yards  or  so,  when  he  caught  sight  of  two  figures 
approaching  him — a  girl  and  a  man,  so  absorbed  that  they 
evidently  had  not  noticed  him.  The  girl  was  of  light  and 
youthful  figure,  and  the  little  old  red  shawl  she  wore  over 
her  head  was  pushed  aside,  and  showed  curly  hair  lying 
upon  her  brow.  It  was  plain  that  she  was  uneasy  or  fright 
ened,  for,  as  soon  as  she  was  near  enough,  her  voice  reached 
him  in  a  tone  of  frightened  protest. 

"  Oh,  dunnot !  "  she  was  saying,  "  I  conna  bear  it.  1 
dunnot  want  to  hear  yo',  an' — an'  I  will  na.  Yo'  moight 
ha'  let  me  be.  I  dunnot  believe  yo'.  Let  me  go  whoam. 
I'll  nivver  coom  again,"  and  then  she  broke  out  crying. 

Craddock  looked  after  them  as  they  passed  from  sight. 

"  Theer'e  trouble  there,"  he  said,  eagerly.  "  A  working 
lass,  an'  a  mon  i'  gentleman's  cloas.  Dorn  sich  loike 
chaps,  say  I.  What  would  they  think  if  workin'  men  ud 
coom  meddlin'  wi'  theer  lasses.  I  wish  I'd  had  more 
toime  to  see  th'  wench's  face." 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

DAN    LOWRIE'S    RETURN. 

NOT  a  pleasant  road  to  travel  at  any  time — the  high 
road  to  Riggan,  it  was  certainly  at  its  worst  to-night. 

Between  twelve  and  one  o'clock,  the  rain  which  had 
been  pouring  down  steadily  with  true  English  pertinacity, 
for  two  dajs,  was  gradually  passing  into  a  drizzle  still 
more  unpleasant, — a  drizzle  that  soaked  into  the  already 
soaked  clay,  that  made  the  mud  more  slippery,  that  pene 
trated  a  man's  clothing  and  beat  softly  but  irritatingly 
against  his  face,  and  dripped  from  his  hair  and  hat  down 
upon  his  neck,  however  well  he  might  imagine  himself 
protected  by  his  outside  wrappings.  But,  if  he  was  a  com 
mon  traveller — a  rough  tramp  or  laborer,  who  was  not  pro 
tected  from  it  at  all,  it  could  not  fail  to  annoy  him  still 
more,  and  consequently  to  affect  his  temper. 

At  the  hour  I  have  named,  such  a  traveller  was  making 
his  way  through  the  mire  and  drizzle  toward  Riggan, — a 
tramp  in  mud-splashed  corduroy  and  with  the  regulation 
handkerchief  bundle  tied  to  the  thick  stick  which  he  car 
ried  over  his  shoulder. 

"  Dom  th  rain ; — dom  th  road,"  he  said. 

It  was  not  alone  the  state  of  the  weather  that  put  him 
out  of  humor. 

"  Th'  lass,"  he  went  on.  "Dom  her  handsome  face. 
Goin'  agin  a  chap — workin'  agin  him,  an'  settin'  hersen  ij 
his  road.  Blast  me,"  grinding  his  teeth — "  Blast  me  if  I 
dunnot  ha'  it  out  wi'  her !  " 


DAN  LOWRIE'S  RETURN.  lf]5 

cursing,  and  alternating  his  curses  with  raging  si- 
,  he  trudged  on  his  way  until  four  o'clock,  when  lie 
was  in  sight  of  the  cottage  upon  the  Knoll  Road — the  cot 
tage  where  Joan  and  Liz  lay  asleep  upon  their  poor  bed, 
with  the  child  between  them. 

Joan  had  not  been  asleep  long.  The  child  had  been 
unusually  fretful,  and  had  kept  her  awake.  So  she  was 
the  more  easily  awakened  from  her  first  light  and  uneasy 
slumber  by  a  knock  on  the  door.  Hearing  it,  she  started 
up  and  listened. 

"Who  is  it?"  she  asked  in  a  voice  too  low  to  disturb 
the  sleepers,  but  distinct  enough  to  reach  Lowrie's  hear 
ing. 

"  Get  thee  up  an'  oppen  tli  door,"  was  the  answer.  "  I 
want  thee." 

She  knew  there  was  something  wrong.  She  had  not 
responded  to  his  summons  for  so  many  years  without 
learning  what  each  tone  meant.  But  she  did  not  hesitate. 

When  she  had  hastily  thrown  on  some  clothing,  she 
opened  the  door  and  stood  before  him. 

"  I  did  not  expect  to  see  yo'  to-neet,"  she  said,  quietly. 

"  Happen   not,"  he   replied.     "  Coom  out  here.     I  ha' 

Bum  mat  to  say  to  yo'." 

j       j 

"  Yo'  wunnot  come  in  ? "  she  asked. 

"Nay.     What  I  ha'  to  say  mowt  waken  th'  young  un." 

She  stepped  out  without  another  word,  and  closed  the 
door  quietly  behind  her. 

There  was  the  faintest  possible  light  in  the  sky,  the  first 
tint  of  dawn,  and  it  showed  even  to  his  brutal  eyes  all 
the  beauty  of  her  face  and  figure  as  she  stood  motionless, 
the  dripping  rain  falling  upon  her ;  there  was  so  little 
suggestion  of  fear  about  her  that  he  was  roused  to  fresh 
anger. 


166  THAT  LASS  V  LOWRI&S 

"  Dom  yo' !  "  he  broke  forth.  "Do  yo'  know  as  I've 
fun  yo'  out  ? " 

She  did  not  profess  not  to  understand  him,  but  she  did 
not  stir  an  inch. 

"  I  did  na  know  before,"  was  her  reply. 

"  Yo'  thowt  as  I  wur  to  be  stopped,  did  yo'  ?  Yo'  thowt 
as  yo'  could  keep  quiet  an'  stond  i'  my  way,  an'  houd  me 
back  till  I'd  forgetten  ?  Yo're  a  brave  wench !  Nivver 
moind  how  I  fun  yo'  out,  an'  seed  how  it  wur — I've  done 
it,  that's  enow  fur  yo' ;  an'  now  I've  coom  to  ha'  a  few 
words  wi'  yo'  and  settle  matters.  I  coom  here  to-neet  a 
purpose,  an'  this  is  what  I've  getten  to  say.  Yo're  stub 
born  enow,  but  yo'  canna  stop  me.  That's  one  thing  I 
ha'  to  tell  yo,'  an  here's  another.  Yo're  hard  enow,  an' 
yo're  wise  enow,  but  yo're  noan  so  wise  as  yo'  think  fur, 
if  yo'  fancy  as  a  hundred  years  ud  mak'  me  forget  what  I 
ha'  made  up  my  moind  to,  an'  yo're  noan  so  wise  as  yo' 
think  fur,  if  yo'  put  yoursen  in  my  road.  An'  here's 
another  yet,"  clinching  his  fist.  "  If  it  wur  murder,  as  I 
wur  goin'  to  do — not  as  I  say  it  is — but  if  it  wur  murder 
itseii  an'  yo'  wur  i'  my  way,  theer  mowt  be  two  blows 
struck  f  stead  o'  one — theer  mowt  be  two  murders  done — 
an'  I  wuniiot  say  which  ud  coom  first — fur  I'll  do  what 
I've  set  my  moind  to,  if  I'm  dom'd  to  hell  fur  it ! " 

She  did  not  move  nor  speak.  Perhaps  because  of  her 
immobility  he  broke  out  again. 

"  What ! "  he  cried.  "  Y<?  hangin'  on  to  gentlemen,  an' 
doggin'  'em,  an'  draggin'  yoursen  thro'  th'  dark  an'  mire 
to  save  'em  fro'  havin'  theer  prutty  faces  hurt,  an'  getten 
theer  dues !  JV  creepin'  behind  a  mon  as  cares  no  more 
fur  yo'  than  he  does  for  th'  dirt  at  his  feet,  an'  as  laughs, 
ten  to  one,  to  know  as  yo're  ready  to  be  picked  up  or 
throwed  down  at  his  pleasure  !  IV  watchin'  i'  th'  shade 


DAN  LOWRIE'S  RETURN.  107 

o'  trees  an'  stoppin'  a  mon  by  neet  as  would  na  stop  to 
speak  to  yo'  by  day.  Dom  yo' !  theer  were  na  a  mon  i' 
Iliggan  as  dare  touch  yo'  wi'  a  yard-stick  until  this  chap 
coom." 

"I've  listened  to  yo',"  she  said.  "Will  yo'  listen  to 
me?" 

lie  replied  with  another  oath,  and  she  continued  as  if  it 
had  been  an  assent. 

"  Theer's  a  few  o'  them  words  as  yo've  spoken  as  is  na 
true,  but  theer's  others  as  is.  It's  true  as  I  ha'  set 
mysen  to  watch,  an'  it's  true  as  I  mean  to  do  it  again.  If 
it's  nowt  but  simple  harm  yo'  mean,  yo'  shanna  do  it;  if 
it's  murder  yo'  mean — an'  I  dunnot  trust  yo'  as  it  is  na — 
if  it's  murder  yo'  mean,  theer's  yo'  an'  me  for  it  before 
it's  done ;  an'  if  theer's  deathly  blows  struck,  the  first  shall 
fa'  on  me.  Theer ! "  and  she  struck  herself  upon  her 
breast.  "  If  I  wur  ivver  afraid  o'  yo'  i'  my  loife — if  I 
ivver  feared  yo'  as  choild  or  woman,  dunnot  believe  me 
now." 

"  Yo'  mean  that?"  he  said. 

"  Yo'  know  whether  I  mean  it  or  not,"  she  answered. 

"  Aye  ! "  he  said.  "  I'm  dom'd  if  yo'  dunnot,  yo'  she- 
devil,  an'  bein'  as  that's  what's  ailin'  thee,  I'm  dom'd  if  I 
dunnot  mean  summat  too,"  and  he  raised  his  hand  and 
gave  her  a  blow  that  felled  her  to  the  ground ;  then  he 
turned  away,  cursing  as  he  went. 

She  uttered  no  cry  of  appeal  or  dread,  and  Liz  and  the 
child  slept  on  inside,  as  quietly  as  before.  It  was  the 
light-falling  rain  and  the  cool  morning  air  that  roused  her. 
She  came  to  herself  at  last,  feeling  sick  and  dizzy,  and 
conscious  of  a  fierce  pain  in  her  bruised  temple.  She 
managed  to  rise  to  her  feet  and  stand,  leaning  against  the 
rough  gate-post.  She  had  borne  such  blows  before,  bat 


168  TEAT  LASS  0'  LOWRI&8. 

she  had  never  felt  her  humiliation  so  bitterly  as  she  did  at 
this  moment.  She  laid  her  brow  upon  her  hand,  which 
rested  on  the  gate,  and  broke  into  heavy  sobs. 

"I  shall  bear  th'  mark  for  mony  a  day,"  she  said.  "I 
mun  hide  mysen  away.  I  could  na  bear  fur  him  to  see 
it,  even  tho'  I  getten  it  fur  his  sake." 


CHAFTEE  XXV. 

THE  OLD  DANGER. 

IT  had  been  some  time  since  Derrick  on  his  nightly 
walks  homeward  had  been  conscious  of  the  presence  of 
the  silent  figure  ;  but  the  very  night  after  the  occurrence 
narrated  in  the  last  chapter,  he  was  startled  at  his  first 
turning  into  the  Knoll  Road  by  recognizing  3oan. 

There  was  a  pang  to  him  in  the  discovery.  Her  silent 
presence  seemed  only  to  widen  the  distance  Fate  had 
placed  between  them.  She  was  ready  to  shield  him  from 
danger,  but  she  held  herself  apart  from  him  even  in  doing 
so.  She  followed  her  own  path  as  if  she  were  a  creature 
of  a  different  world, — a  world  so  separated  from  his  own 
that  nothing  could  ever  bridge  the  gulf  between  them. 

To-night,  Derrick  was  seized  with  an  intense  longing  to 
speak  to  the  girl.  He  had  forborne  for  her  sake  before, 
but  to-night  he  was  in  one  of  those  frames  of  mind  in 
which  a  man  is  selfish,  and  is  apt  to  let  his  course  be 
regulated  by  his  impulse.  Why  should  he  not  speak,  after 
all  ?  If  there  was  danger  for  him  there  was  danger  for 
her,  and  it  was  absurd  that  he  should  not  show  her  that 
he  was  not  afraid.  Why  should  she  interpose  her  single 
strength  between  himself  and  the  vengeance  of  a  man  of 
whom  he  had  had  the  best  in  their  only  encounter  ?  As 
soon  as  they  had  reached  the  more  unfrequented  part  of 
the  road,  he  wheeled  round  suddenly,  and  spoke. 

"  Joan,"  he  said. 
8 


170  THAT  LASS  G1  LOWRIE'S. 

He  saw  that  she  paused  and  hesitated,  and  he  made  up 
his  mind  more  strongly.  He  took  a  few  impetuous  step? 
toward  her,  and  seeing  this,  she  addressed  him  hurriedly. 

"  Dunnot  stop,"  she  said.  "  If— if  yo'  want  to  speak  t< 
me,  I'll  go  along  wi'  yoV 

"  You  think  I'm  in  danger? " 

He  could  not  see  her  face,  but  her  voice  told  him  that 
her  usual  steady  composure  was  shaken — it  was  almost  like 
the  voice  of  another  woman. 

"  Yo'  nivver  wur  i'  more  danger  i'  yore  loife." 

"The  old  danger?" 

"  Th'  old  danger,  as  is  worse  to  be  feared  now  than 
ivver." 

"  And  you !  "  he  broke  out.  "  You  interpose  yourself 
between  that  danger  and  me  !  " 

His  fire  seemed  to  communicate  itself  to  her. 

"  Th'  harm  as  is  meant  to  be  done,  is  coward's  harm,'- 
she  said,  "  an'  will  be  done  i'  coward's  fashion — it  is  na  a 
harm  as  will  be  done  yo'  wi'  fair  warnin',  i'  dayleet,  an' 
face  to  face.  If  it  wur,  I  should  na  fear — but  th'  way  it 
is,  I  say  it  shanna  be  done — it  shanna,  if  I  dee  fur  it !  " 
Then  her  manner  altered  again,  and  her  voice  returned  to 
its  first  tremor.  "  It  is  na  wi'  me  as  it  is  wi'  other  women. 
Yo'  munnot  judge  o'  me  as  yo'  judge  o'  other  lasses. 
What  mowtn't  be  reet  fur  other  lasses  to  do,  is  reet  enow 
fur  me.  It  has  na  been  left  to  me  to  be  lass-loike,  an' 
feart,  an' — an'  modest,"  and  she  drew  her  breath  hard,  as 
if  she  was  forced  to  check  herself. 

"It  has  been  left  to  you,"  he  burst  forth,  "it  has  been 
left  to  you  to  stand  higher  in  my  eyes  than  any  other 
woman  God  ever  made." 

He  could  not  have  controlled  himself.  And  yet,  when 
he  had  said  this,  his  heart  leaped  for  fear  he  might  have 


THE  OLD  DANGER.  171 

wounded  her  or  given  her  a  false  impression.     But  strange 
to  say,  it  proved  this  time  that  he  had  no  need  for  fear. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  she  answered 
low. 

"  Thank  yo' ! " 

They  had  gone  some  yards  together,  before  he  recovered 
himself  sufficiently  to  remember  what  he  had  meant  to  sav 
to  her. 

"  I  wanted  to  tell  you,"  he  said,  "  that  I  do  not  think 
any — enemy  I  have,  can  take  me  at  any  very  great  dis 
advantage.     I  am — I  have  prepared  myself." 

She  shuddered. 

"  Yo'  carry — summat  ?  " 

"  Don't  misunderstand  me,"  he  said  quickly.  "  I  shall 
not  use  any  weapon  rashly.  It  is  to  be  employed  more 
as  a  means  of  warning  and  alarm  than  anything  else. 
Kigganites  do  not  like  tire-arms,  and  they  are  not  used  to 
them.  I  only  tell  you  this,  because  I  cannot  bear  that  you 
should  expose  yourself  unnecessarily." 

There  was  that  in  his  manner  which  moved  her  as  his 
light  touch  had  done  that  first  night  of  their  meeting, 
when  he  had  bound  up  her  wounded  temple  with  his 
handkerchief.  It  was  that  her  womanhood — her  hardly 
used  womanhood,  of  which  she  had  herself  thought  with 
such  pathetic  scorn — was  always  before  him,  and  was 
even  a  stronger  power  with  him  than  her  marvellous 
beauty. 

She  remembered  the  fresh  bruise  upon  her  brow,  and 
felt  its  throb  with  less  of  shame,  because  she  bore  it  for 
his  sake. 

"  Promise  me  one  thing,"  he  went  on.  "  And  do  not 
think  me  ungracious  in  asking  it  of  you — promise  me  that 
you  will  not  come  out  again  through  any  fear  of  danger 


172  THAT  LASS  O>  LOWRI&S. 

for  rne,  unless  it  is  a  greater  one  than  threatens  me  new 
and  one  I  am  unprepared  to  meet." 

"  I  conna,"  she  answered  firmly.  "  I  conna  promise  yo' 
5To'  mun  let  me  do  as  I  ha'  done  fur  th'  sake  o'  my  own 
peace." 

She  made  no  further  explanation,  and  he  could  not  per 
suade  her  to  alter  her  determination.  In  fact,  he  was  led 
to  see  at  last,  that  there  was  more  behind  than  she  had 
the  will  or  power  to  reveal  to  him ;  something  in  her  reti 
cence  silenced  him. 

"  Yo'  dunnot  know  what  I  do,"  she  said  before  they 
parted.  "An'  happen  yo'  would  na  quoite  understand  it 
if  yo'  did.  I  dunnot  do  things  lightly, — I  ha'  no  reason 
to, — an'  I  ha'  set  my  moind  on  seein'  that  th'  harm  as  has 
been  brewin'  fur  long  enow,  shanna  reach  wheer  it's  aimed. 
I  mun  ha*  my  way.  Dunnot  ask  me  to  gi'e  it  up.  Let 
me  do  as  I  ha'  been  doin',  fur  th'  sake  o'  mysen,  if  fur 
no  one  else." 

The  truth  which  he  could  not  reach,  and  would  not 
have  reached  if  he  had  talked  to  her  till  doomsday,  was 
that  she  was  right  in  saying  that  she  could  not  give  it  up. 
This  woman  had  made  no  inconsequent  boast  when  she 
told  her  father  that  if  deadly  blows  fell,  they  must  fall 
first  upon  herself.  She  was  used  to  blows,  she  could 
bear  them,  she  was  fearless  before  them, — but  she  could 
not  have  borne  to  sit  at  home,  under  any  possibility  of 
wrong  being  done  to  this  man.  God  knows  what  heavy 
sadness  had  worn  her  soul,  through  the  months  in  which 
she  had  never  for  a  moment  flinched  from  the  knowledge 
that  a  whole  world  lay  between  herself  and  him.  God 
knows  how  she  had  struggled  against  the  unconquerable 
tide  of  feeling  as  it -crept  slowly  upon  her,  refusing  to  be 
stemmed  and  threatening  to  overwhelm  her  in  its  remorse- 


THE  OLD  DANGER.  173 

less  waves.  She  was  only  left  endurance — yet  even  in 
this  there  was  a  gladness  which  she  had  in  nothing  else. 
She  could  never  meet  him  as  a  happier  woman  might, 
but  she  could  do  for  him  what  other  women  could  not  do 
— she  could  brave  darkness  and  danger,  she  could  watch 
over  him,  if  need  be  ;  if  the  worst  came  to  the  worht,  she 
could  interpose  herself  between  him  and  violent  e,  or 
death  itself. 

But  of  all  this,  Fergus  Derrick  suspected  nothing.  He 
only  knew  that  while  she  had  not  misinterpreted  his  ap 
peal,  some  reason  of  her  own  held  her  firm. 


CHAPTER  XXYL 

THE  PACKAGE  RETURNED. 

As  Joan  turned  the  corner  of  a  lane  leading  '.o  the  high 
road,  she  found  herself  awkwardly  trying  to  pass  a  man 
who  confronted  her — a  young  fellow  far  too  elegant  and 
well-dressed  to  be  a  Eigganite. 

"  Beg  pardon  !  "  he  said  abruptly,  as  if  he  were  not  in 
the  best  of  humors.  And  then  she  recognized  him. 

"It's  Mester  Ralph  Landsell,"  she  said  to  herself  as  she 
went  on.  "  What  is  he  doin'  here  ? " 

But  before  she  had  finished  speaking,  she  started  at  the 
sight  of  a  figure  hurrying  on  before  her, — Liz  herself,  who 
had  evidently  just  parted  from  her  lover,  and  was  walking 
rapidly  homeward. 

It  was  a  shock  to  Joan,  though  she  did  not  suspect  the 
whole  truth.  She  had  trusted  the  girl  completely;  she 
had  never  interfered  with  her  outgoing  or  incoming;  she 
had  been  generously  lenient  toward  her  on  every  point, 
and  her  pang  at  finding  herself  deceived  was  keen.  Her 
sudden  discovery  of  the  subterfuge  filled  her  with  alarm. 
"What  was  the  meaning  of  it  ?  Surely  it  could  not  mean 
that  this  man  was  digging  fresh  pitfalls  for  the  poor  stray 
ing  feet.  She  could  not  believe  this, — she  could  only 
shudder  as  the  ominous  thought  suggested  itself.  And 
Liz — nay,  even  Liz  could  not  be  weak  enough  to  trifle  with 
danger  again. 

But  it  was  Liz  who  was  hurrying  on  before  her,  and 
who  was  walking  so  fast  that  both  were  breathless  when 


THE  PACKAGE  RETURNED.         175 

Joan  reached  her  side  and  laid  a  detaining  hand  upon  her 
shoulder. 

"  Liz,"  she  said,  "  are  yo'  af eard  o'  me '(  " 

Liz  turned  her  face  around,  colorless  and  frightened. 
There  was  a  tone  in  the  voice  she  had  never  heard  before 
a  reproach  in  Joan's  eyes  before  which  she  faltered. 

« I — did  na  know  it  wur  yo',"  she  said,  almost  peevishly 
"What  fur  should  I  be  afeard  o'  yo'? " 

Joan's  hand  dropped. 

"Yo'  know  best,"  she  answered.  "I  did  na  say  yo' 
wur." 

Liz  pulled  her  shawl  closer  about  her  shoulders,  as  if  in 
nervous  protest. 

"  1  dunnot  see  why  I  should  be,  though  to  be  sure  it's 
enow  to  fear  one  to  be  followed  i'  this  way.  Canna  I  g< 
out  far  a  minnit  wi'out — wi'out — " 

"  Nay,  lass,"  Joan  interrupted,  "  that's  wild  talk." 

Liz  began  to  whimper. 

"  Th'  choild  wur  asleep,"  she  said,  "  an'  it  wur  so  lone 
some  i'  th'  house.  Theer  wur  no  harm  i'  comin'  out." 

"  I  hope  to  God  theer  wur  na,"  exclaimed  Joan.  "  I'd 
rayther  see  thy  dead  face  lyin'  by  th'  little  un's  on  th' 
pillow  than  think  as  theer  wur.  Yo'  know  what  I  mean, 
Liz.  Yo'  know  I  could  na  ha'  caught  up  wi'  yo'  wi'out 
passin'  thot  moil  theer, — th'  mon  as  yo'  ha'  been  meetin' 
on  th'  sly, — God  knows  why,  lass,  fur  I  canna  see,  unless 
yo'  want  to  fa'  back  to  shame  an'  ruin." 

They  were  at  home  by  this  time,  and  she  opened  the 
door  to  let  the  girl  walk  in  before  her. 

"  Get  thee  inside,  Liz,"  she  said.  "  I  mun  hear  what 
tha  has  to  say,  fur  I  conna  rest  i'  fear  for  thee,  I  am  na 
angered,  fur  I  pity  thee  too  much.  Tha  art  naught  but  a 
choild  at  th'  best,  an'  th'  world  is  fu'  o'  traps  an'  snares." 


J76  THAT  LASS  0'  LO  WRISTS 

Liz  took  off  her  hat  and  shawl  and  sat  down.  She  cov 
ered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  sobbed  appealingly. 

"  I  ha'  na  done  no  harm,"  she  protested.  ''  I  nivver 
meant  none.  It  wur  his  fault.  He  wunnot  let  me  a-be, 
an' — an'  he  said  he  wanted  to  hear  suminat  about  th' 
choild,  an'  gi'e  me  summat  to  help  me  along.  He  said  aa 
he  wur  ashamed  o'  hissen  to  ha'  left  me  wi'out  money,  but 
he  wur  hard  run  at  the  toime,  an'  now  he  wanted  to  gi' 
me  some." 

"  Money  ! "  said  Joan.     "  Did  he  offer  yo'  money  ? " 

"  Aye,  he  said- 

"  Wait!  "  said  Joan.     «  Did  yo'  tak'  it  ?  " 

"  What  would  yo'  ha'  me  do  ? "  restlessly.  "  Theer  wur 
no  harm " 

"  Ha'  yo'  gotten  it  on  yo'  ? "  interrupting  her  again. 

"  Aye,"  stopping  to  look  up  questioningly. 

Joan  held  out  her  hand. 

"  Gi'e  it  to  me,"  she  said,  steadily. 

Mr.  Ralph  Landsell,  who  was  sitting  in  his  comfortable 
private  parlor  at  the  principal  hotel  of  the  little  town,  was 
disturbed  in  the  enjoyment  of  his  nightly  cigar  by  the 
abrupt  announcement  of  a  visitor, — a  young  woman,  who 
surprised  him  by  walking  into  the  room  and  straight  up  to 
the  table  near  which  he  sat. 

She  was  such  a  very  handsome  young  woman,  with 
her  large  eyes  and  finely  cut  face,  and  heavy  nut-brown 
hair,  and,  despite  her  common  dress,  so  very  imposing  a 
young  woman,  that  the  young  man  was  quite  startled, — • 
especially  when  she  laid  upon  the  table-cloth  a  little 
package,  which  he  knew  had  only  left  his  hands  half  an 
hour  before. 

"  I  ha'  browt  it  back  to  yo' ; "  she  said,  calmly. 


THE  PACKAGE  RETURNED.  177 

He  glanced  down  at  the  package  and  then  up  at  her, 
irritated  and  embarrassed. 

"  You  have  brought  it  back  to  me  ? "  he  said.  "  May  I 
ask  what  it  is  2  " 

u  I  dnniiot  think  TO'  need  ask ;  but  sin'  yo'  do  so,  I  con 
answer.  It's  th'  money,  Mester  Landsell, — th'  money  yo' 
give  to  poor  Lizzie." 

"  And  may  I  ask  again,  what  the  money  I  gave  to  poor 
Lizzie  has  to  do  with  you  ? " 

"  Yo'  may  ask  again,  an'  I  con  answer.  I  am  th'  poor 
lass's  friend, — happen  th'  only  friend  she  has  i'  th'  world, 
— an'  I  tell  yo'  as  I  will  na  see  yo'  play  her  false  again." 

"  The  devil !  "  he  broke  forth,  angrily.  "  You  speak  as 
— as  if  you  thought  I  meant  her  harm." 

He  colored  and  faltered,  even  as  he  spoke.  Joan  faced 
him  with  bright  and  scornful  eyes. 

"  If  yo'  dunnot  mean  her  harm,  dunnot  lead  her  to 
underhand  ways  o'  deceivin'  them  as  means  her  well.  If 
yo'  dunnot  mean  her  harm,  tak'  yore  belongings  and  leave 
JR-isnran  to-morrow  morning;." 

OO  ^ 

He  answered  her  by  a  short,  uneasy  laugh. 

"  By  Jove !  "  he  said.  "  You  are  a  cool  hand,  young 
woman — but  you  can  set  your  mind  at  rest.  I  shall  not 
leave  lliggan  to-morrow  morning,  as  you  modestly  de 
mand — not  only  because  I  have  further  business  to  trans 
act,  but  because  I  choose  to  remain.  I  shall  not  make 
any  absurd  promises  about  not  seeing  Lizzie,  which,  it 
seems  to  me,  is  more  my  business  than  yours,  under  the 
circumstances — and  I  shall  not  take  the  money  back." 

"Yo'  willna?" 

"No,  I  will  not." 

"  Very  well.  1  ha'  no  more  to  say/'  and  she  went  out 
-f  the  room,  leaving  the  package  lying  upon  the  table. 


178  THAT  LASS  0'  LO  WRISTS. 

When  she  reached  home,  Liz  was  still  sitting  as  she  hac 
left  her,  and  she  looked  up  tearful  and  impatient. 

"Well?"  she  said. 

"  He  has  th'  money,"  was  Joan's  answer,  "  an'  he  ha' 
shown  ine  as  he  is  a  villain." 

She  came  and  stood  near  the  girl,  a  strong  emotion  in 
her  half  pitying,  half  appealing  look. 

"  Lizzie,  lass  !  "  she  said.  u  Tha  mun  listen  to  me, — tha 
mun.  Tha  mun  mak'  me  a  promise  before  tha  tak's  thy 
choild  upo'  thy  breast  to-neet." 

"  I  dunnot  care,"  protested  Liz,  weeping  fretfully.  "  I 
dunnot  care  what  I  do.  It's  aw  as  bad  as  ivver  now.  I 
dunnot  care  for  nowt.  Ivverybody's  at  me — noan  on  yo' 
will  let  me  a-be.  What  wi'  first  one  an'  then  another  I'm 
a'most  drove  wild." 

"  God  help  thee  !  "  said  Joan  with  a  heavy  sigh.  "  I 
dunnot  mean  to  be  hard,  lass,  but  yo'  mun  promise  me. 
it  is  na  mich,  Lizzie,  if — if  things  is  na  worse  wi'  yo'  than 
I  would  ivver  believe.  Yo're  safe  so  far  :  promise  me  as 
yo'  will  na  run  i'  danger — promise  me  as  yo'  will  na  see 
that  man  again,  that  yo'll  keep  out  o'  his  way  till  he  leaves 
Riggan." 

"  I'll  promise  owt,"  cried  Liz.  "  I  dunnot  care,  I  tell 
jo\  I'll  promise  owt  yo'll  ax,  if  yo'll  let  me  a-be,"  and 
she  hid  her  face  upon  her  arms  and  wept  aloud. 


CHAPTER  XXYIT 
SAMMY  CKADDOCK'S  "  MANNY-ENSIS." 

AT  hast  twice  a  week  Jud  Bates  made  a  pilgrimage  to 
Haviland  Park.  Having  been  enlightened  to  the  extent 
of  two  or  three  chapters  of  "  Robinson  Crusoe,"  Sammy 
Craddock  was  athirst  for  more.  He  regarded  the  adven 
tures  of  the  hero  as  valuable  information  from  foreign 
shores,  as  information  that  might  be  used  in  political 
debates,  and  brought  forth  on  state  occasions  to  floor  a 
presumptuous  antagonist.  Accordingly,  he  held  out  in 
ducements  to  Jud  such  as  the  boy  was  not  likely  to  think 
lightly  of.  A  penny  a  night,  and  a  good  supper  for  him 
self  and  Nib,  held  solid  attractions  for  Jud,  and  at  this 
salary  he  found  himself  engaged  in  the  character  of  what 
"  Owd  Sammy  "  called  "  a  manny-ensis." 

"  What's  that  theer  \  "  inquired  Mrs.  Craddock  on  first 
hearing  this  imposing  title.  "  A  manny — what  ?  " 

"  A  manny-ensis,  owd  lass,"  said  Sammy,  chuckling. 
"  Did  tha  ivver  hear  o'  a  private  gentleman  as  had  na  a 
manny-ensis  ? " 

"  Nay.  I  know  nowt  about  thy  manny-ensisses,  an'  I'll 
warrant  tha  does  na  know  what  such  loike  is  thysen." 

"  It  means  a  power  o'  things,"  answere'd  Sammy  ;  "  a 
power  o'  things.  It's  a  word  as  is  comprehensive,  as  they 
ca'  it,  an'  it's  one  as  will  do  as  well  as  any  fur  th'  lad.  A 
manny-ensis  !  "  and  manny-ensis  it  remained. 

Surely  the  adventures  of  the  island-solitary  had  neve? 
given  such  satisfaction  as  they  gave  in  the  cheery  house- 


180  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRIE'S. 

room  of  the  lodge.  Sammy  listened  to  them  over  numer« 
ous  pipes,  with  a  respect  for  literature  such  as  had  never 
before  been  engendered  in  his  mind  by  the  most  imposing 
display  of  bindings. 

"  I've  allus  thowt  as  th'  newspaper  wur  enow  fur  a  mon 
to  tackle,"  he  would  say,  reflectively  ;  "but  theer's  sum- 
mat  outside  o'  th'  newspapers.  I  nivver  seed  a  paper  as 
had  owt  in  it  about  desert  islands,  let  alone  cannybles." 

"  Cannybles,  indeed  !  "  replied  Mrs.  Craddock,  who 
was  occasionally  one  of  the  audience.  "  I  conna  mak'  no 
sense  out  o'  thee  an'  thy  cannybles.  I  wonder  they  are 
na'  shamt  o'  theirsens,  goin'  about  wi'out  so  mich  as  a 
hat  on,  an"  eatin'  each  other,  as  if  there  wur  na  a  bit  o? 
good  victual  i'  th'  place.  I  wonder  th'  Queen  dun-not 
put  a  stop  to  it  hersen  if  th'  parlyment  ha'  not  getten 
the  sense  to  do  it.  It's  noan  respectable,  let  alone  Chris 
tian." 

"  Eh  ! "  said  Sammy  ;  "  but  tha'rt  i'  a  muddle.  Th'dst 
allus  be  i'  a  muddle  if  I'd  let  thee  mak'  things  out  thysen 
an'  noan  explain  'em  to  thee.  Does  tha  think  aw  this 
here  happent  i'  England  ?  It  wur  i'  furrin  lands,  owd 
wench,  i'  a  desert  island  i'  th'  midst  o'  th'  sea." 

"  Well,  I  wur  hopin'  it  wur  na  i'  Lancashire,  I  man 
say ! " 

"  Lancashire  !  Why,  it  happent  further  off  nor  Lunnon, 
i'  a  place  as  it's  loike  th'  Queen  has  nivver  seed  nor  heerd 
tell  on." 

The  old  woman  looked  dubious,  if  not  disapproving. 
A  place  that  was  not  in  Lancashire,  and  that  the  Queen 
had  nothing  to  do  with,  was,  to  her,  a  place  quite  "  off 
color." 

u  Well !  well !  "  she  resumed,  with  the  manner  of  an 
unbeliever,  "  thee  go  on  thy  way  readin'  if  tha  con  tak' 


BAMMT  VRADDOCIT8  "  MANNY-ENSIS."          181 

comfort  i'  it.  But  I  mun  sa}7  again  as  it  docs  na  sound 
Christian  to  me.  That's  the  least  I  con  say  on't." 

"  Tha'rt  slow  i'  understanding  owd  lass,"  was  her  hus 
band's  tolerant  comment.  "  Tha  does  na  know  enow  o' 
litteiytoor  to  appreciate.  Th'  female  intylect  is  na 
strong  at  th'  best,  an5  tha  nivver  wur  more  than  ordinary. 
Get  into  it,  Manny-ensis.  It's  getten  late,  and  I'm  fain  to 
hear  more  about  th'  mon  Friday,  an'  how  th'  poor  chap 
managed." 

Both  reader  and  audience  were  so  full  of  interest  that 
Jud's  story  was  prolonged  beyond  the  usual  hour.  But 
to  the  boy,  this  was  a  matter  of  small  consequence.  He 
had  tramped  the  woods  too  often  with  Nib  for  a  compan 
ion  to  feel  fear  at  any  time.  He  had  slept  under  a  hedge 
many  a  night  from  choice,  and  had  enjoyed  his  slumber 
like  a  young  vagabond,  as  he  was. 

He  set  out  on  this  occasion  in  high  good  humor.  There 
were  no  clouds  to  hide  the  stars  ;  he  had  had  an  excellent 
supper,  and  he  had  enjoyed  his  evening.  He  trudged  along 
cheerily,  his  enjoyment  as  yet  unabated.  The  trees  and 
hedges,  half  stripped  of  their  leaves,  were  so  suggestive  of 
birds'  nests,  that  now  and  then  he  stepped  aside  to  exam 
ine  them  more  closely.  The  nests  might  be  there  yet, 
though  the  birds  had  flown.  Where  throstles  had  built 
this  year,  it  was  just  possible  others  might  build  again, 
and,  at  any  rate,  it  was  as  well  to  know  where  their 
haunts  had  been.  So,  having  objects  enough  to  attract 
his  attention,  the  boy  did  not  find  the  way  long.  He  was 
close  upon  the  mine  before  he  had  time  to  feel  fatigue 
possible,  and,  nearing  the  mine,  he  was  drawn  from  his 
path  again  by  a  sudden  remembrance  brought  up  by  the 
eight  of  a  hedge  surrounding  a  field  near  it. 

"  Theer  wur  a  bird  as  built  i'  that  hedge  i'  th'  spring/ 


182  '  THAT  LASS  O>  LO  WRI&S. 

he  said.  "She  wur  a  new  kind.  I'd  forgotten  her.  I 
meant  to  ha'  watched  her.  I  wonder  if  any  other  felly 
fun  her.  I'll  go  an'  see  if  th'  nest  is  theer." 

He  crossed  the  road  to  the  place  where  he  fancied  he 
had  seen  this  treasure  ;  but  not  being  quite  certain  as  to 
the  exact  spot,  he  found  his  search  lengthened  by  this 
uncertainty. 

"  It  wur  here,"  he  said  to  himself  ;  "  at  least  I  thowt  it 
wur.  Some  chap  mun  ha'  fun  it  an'  tuk  it." 

At  this  moment  he  paused,  as  if  listening. 

"  What's  that  theer  ? "  he  said.  "  Theer's  some  one  or 
th'  other  side  o'  th'  hedge." 

He  had  been  attracted  by  the  sound  of  voices — men's 
voices — the  voices  of  men  who  were  evidently  crouching 
under  the  shadow  of  the  hedge  on  the  other  side,  and 
whose  tones  in  a  moment  more  reached  him  distinctly, 
and  were  recognized. 

The  first  was  Dan  Lowrie's,  and  before  he  had  heard 
him  utter  a  dozen  words,  Jud  dropped  upon  his  knees  and 
laid  his  hand  warningly  upon  Nib's  neck.  The  dog 
pricked  his  pointed  ears  and  looked  up  at  him  restlessly. 
All  the  self-control  of  his  nature  could  scarcely  help  him 
to  suppress  a  whine. 

"  Them  as  is  feared  to  stand  by  Dan  Lowrie,"  said  the 
voice,  with  an  oath,  "  let  'em  say  so." 

"  Theer's  not  a  mon  here  as  is  feart,"  was  the  gruff 
answer. 

"Then  theer's  no  need  to  gab  no  more,"  returned 
Lowrie.  "  Yo'  know  what  yo'  ha'  getten  to  do.  Yo'  ha' 
th'  vitriol  an'  th'  sticks.  Wait  yo'  fur  him  at  th'  second 
corner  an'  I'll  wait  at  th'  first.  If  he  does  na  tak'  one 
turn  into  th'  road  he'll  tak'  th'  other,  an'  so  whicli  turn  he 
tak's  we'll  be  ready  fur  him.  Blast  him !  he'll  be  done 


SAMMY  CRADDOCK'S  "MANNY-EN SIS."          183 

wi'  engineerin'  fur  a  while  if  he  fa's  into  my  hands,  an' 
he1 11  inak'  no  more  rows  about  th'  Davvies." 

Impatient  for  the  word  of  command,  Nib  stirred  un 
easily  among  the  dead  leaves,  and  the  men  heard  him. 
Not  a  moment's  space  was  given  to  the  two  listeners,  or 
they  would  have  saved  themselves.  There  was  a  smoth 
ered  exclamation  from  three  voices  at  once,  a  burst  of 
profanity,  and  Dan  Lowrie  had  leaped  the  low  hedge  and 
caught  Jud  by  the  collar.  The  man  was  ghastly  with 
rage.  He  shook  the  lad  until  even  he  himself  was  breath 
less. 

•"  Yo'  young  devil !  "  he  cried,  hoarsely,  "  yo've  been 
listenin',  ha'  yo'  ?  Nay,  theer's  no  use  o'  yo'  tryin'  to 
brave  it  out.  Yo've  done  for  yorsen,  by  God  !  " 

"Let  me  a-be,"  said  Jud,  but  he  was  as  pale  as  his 
captor.  "  I  wur  na  doin'  thee  no  harm.  I  on'y  coorn  to 
look  fur  a  bird's  nest." 

"  Yo'  listened,"  said  Lowrie ;  "  yo'  heerd  what  we 
said." 

"  Let  me  a-be,"  was  Jud's  sullen  reply. 

At  this  moment  a  man's  face  rose  above  the  whitethorn 
hedge. 

"  Who  is  it? "  asked  the  fellow,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  A  dom'd  young  rascal  as  has  been  eaves-droppin'. 
Yo'  may  as  well  coom  out,  lads.  We've  getten  to  settle 
wi'  him,  or  we'n  fun  ourselves  in  th'  worst  box  yet." 

The  man  scrambled  over  the  hedge  without  further 
comment,  and  his  companion  followed  him  ;  and  seeing 
who  they  were,  Jud  felt  that  his  position  was  even  more 
dangerous  than  he  fancied  at  first.  The  three  plotters 
who  grouped  themselves  about  him  were  three  of  the 
most  desperate  fell'  ws  in  the  district — brutal,  revengeful, 
vicious,  combining  all  the  characteristics  of  a  bad  class 


184  THAT  LASS  O>  LO  WRIST 8. 

The  two  last  looked  at  him  with  evident  discomfort  and 
bewilderment. 

"  Here's  a  pretty  go,"  said  one. 

"  Aye,  by  th  Lord  Harry  !  "  added  the  other.  "  How 
long's  he  bin  here  ?  " 

"  How  long'st  bin  here  ?  "  demanded  Lowrie,  with  an 
other  shake. 

"  Long  enow  to  look  fur  a  bird's  nest  an'  not  find  it," 
said  Jud,  trying  to  speak  stoutly. 

The  three  exchanged  glances  and  oaths. 

"He's  heerd  ivvery  word,"  said  Lowrie,  in  a  savage 
answer. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then  Lowrie  broke 
out  again. 

"  Theer's  on'y  one  road  to  stop  his  gab,"  he  said. 
"  Pitch  him  into  th'  mine,  an'  be  dom'd  to  him.  He  shall 
na  spoil  th'  job,  if  I  ha'  to  swing  fur  it." 

Nib  gave  a  low  whine,  and  Jud's  heart  leaped  within 
him.  Every  lad  in  Riggan  knew  Dan  Lowrie  and  feared 
him.  There  was  not  a  soul  within  hearing,  and  people 
were  not  fond  of  visiting  the  mine  at  night,  so  if  they 
chose  to  dispose  of  him  in  any  way,  they  would  have  time 
and  opportunity  to  do  it  without  risk  of  being  interfered 
with.  But  it  happened  that  upon  the  present  occasion 
Lowrie's  friends  were  not  as  heated  as  himself.  It  was 
not  a  strictly  personal  grudge  they  were  going  to  settle, 
and  consequently  some  remnant  of  humanity  got  the  bet 
ter  of  them. 

"  Nay,"  said  the  youngest,  "  one's  enow." 

"  Kay,"  Lowrie  put  in  ;  "  one's  not  enow  fur  me,  if 
theer's  another  as  is  goin'  to  meddle.  Summat's  getten 
to  be  done,  an'  done  quick." 

"Mak'  him   promise    to   keep   his   mouth   shut,"  Bug- 


SAMMY  CRADDOCK'3  "  MANNY-ENSIS."          185 

gested  ~No.  3.  "He'll  do  it  sooner  nor  get  hissen  into 
trouble." 

"Wilt  ta? "  demanded  the  young  one. 

Jud  looked  up  at  him.  He  had  the  stubborn  North  coun 
try  blood  in  him,  and  the  North  country  courage.  Having 
heard  what  he  had,  he  was  sharp  enough  to  comprehend 
all.  There  was  only  one  engineer  whom  Lowrie  could  havt 
a  grudge  against,  and  that  one  was  Derrick.  They  were 
going  to  work  some  harm  against  "  Mester  Derrick,"  who 
was  his  friend  and  Miss  Anice's. 

"Wilt  ta  ? "  repeated  his  questioner,  feeling  quite  sure  of 
him.  The  youth  of  Riggan  were  generally  ready  enough 
for  ?nis3hief,  and  troubled  by  no  scruples  of  conscience, 
so  the  answer  he  received  took  him  by  surprise. 

"Nay,"  said  Jud,  "  I  will  na." 

"Thawillna?" 

"Nay." 

The  fellow  fell  back  a  step  or  two  to  stare  at  him. 

"  Well,  tlia'rt  a  plucky  one  at  ony  rate,"  he  growled, 
discomfited. 

Jud  stood  his  ground. 

"  Mester  Derrick's  bin  good  to  me,"  he  said,  "  an'  he's 
bin  good  to  Nib.  Th'  rest  o'yo'  ha'  a  kick  fur  Nib  when- 
ivver  he  gits  i'  yore  way ;  but  he  nivver  so  much  as  spoke 
rough  to  him.  He's  gin  me  a  penny  more  nor  onct  to  buy 
him  summat  to  eat.  Chuck  me  down  the  shaft,  if  yo' 
want  to." 

Though  he  scarcely  believed  they  would  take  him  at 
his  word,  since  the  two  were  somewhat  in  liis  favor,  it 
was  a  courageous  thing  to  say.  If  his  fate  had  rested  in 
Lowrie's  hands  alone,  heaven  knows  what  the  result  might 
have  been  ;  but  having  the  ethers  to  contend  vith,  he  was 
safe  so  far.  But  there  was  not  much  time  to  lose,  and 


186  THAT  LASS  V  LQWRIE'S. 

even  the  less  interested  parties  to  the  transgression  had  a 
stolid  determination  to  stand  by  their  comrade.  There 
was  a  hurried  consultation  held  in  undertones,  and  then 
the  youngest  man  bent  suddenly,  and,  with  a  short  laugh, 
caught  Nib  in  his  arms.  He  was  vicious  enough  to  take 
a  pleasure  in  playing  tormentor,  if  in  his  cooler  moods  he 
held  back  from  committing  actual  crime. 

"Tha'rt  a  plucky  young  devil,"  he  said;  "but  tha's 
getten  to  swear  to  howd  thy  tongue  between  thy  teeth,  an 
if  tha  wunnot  do  it  fur  thy  own  sake,  happen  tha  will  fur 
th'  dog's." 

"  What  art  tha  goin'  to  do  wi'  him  ? "  cried  Jud,  trem 
bling.  "  He  has  na  done  yo'  no  hurt." 

"  We're  goin'  to  howd  him  over  th'  shaft  a  miniiit  till  tha 
mak's  up  thy  mind.  Bring  th'  young  chap  along,  lads." 

He  had  not  struggled  before,  but  he  began  to  struggle 
now  with  all  his  strength.  He  grew  hot  and  cold  by  turns. 
It  might  not  be  safe  to  kill  him ;  but  it  would  be  safe 
enough  to  kill  Nib. 

"  Let  me  a-be,"  he  cried.  "  Let  that  theer  dog  loose. 
Nib,  Nib, — seize  him,  lad  !  " 

"  Put  thy  hond  over  his  mouth,"  said  the  young  man. 

And  so  Jud  was  half  dragged,  half  carried  to  the  shaft. 
It  was  as  useless  for  him  to  struggle  as  it  was  for  Nib. 
Both  were  powerless.  But  Jud's  efforts  to  free  himself 
were  so  frantic  that  the  men  laughed, — Lowrie  grimly, 
the  other  two  with  a  kind  of  malicious  enjoyment  of  the 
grotesqueness  of  the  situation. 

"  Set  him  down,  but  keep  him  quiet,"  was  the  command 
given  when  they  reached  the  pit's  side. 

The  next  instant  a  dreadful  cry  was  smothered  in  the 
boy's  grappled  throat.  They  were  leaning  against  the 
rail  and  holding  Nib  over  the  black  abyss. 


8AMX7  CRADDOCK'S  "  MANNY-EN8I8."          187 

"Wilt  ta  promise?  "  he  was  asked.  "  Tha  may  let  him 
Bpeak,  Lowrie  ;  he  canna  mak'  foak  hear." 

Nib  looked  down  into  the  blackness,  and  broke  into  a 
terrific  whine,  turning  his  head  toward  his  master. 

«  i_l — conna  promise,"  said  Jud  ;  but  he  burst  into 
tears. 

"  Let  th'  dog  go,"  said  Lowrie. 

u  Try  him  again.  Wilt  ta  promise,  or  mun  we  let  th'  dog 
go,  lad  ?  We're  noan  go  in'  to  do  th'  chap  ony  great  harm ; 
we're  on'y  goin'  to  play  him  a  trick  to  pay  him  back  fur 
his  cheek." 

Jud  looked  at  Nib 

"  Lowrie  said  yo  had  vitriol  and  knob-sticks,"  he  fal 
tered.  "  Yo'  diimiat  play  tricks  wi'  them." 

11  Yo'  see  how  much  he's  heerd,"  said  Lowrie.  "  He'll 
noan  promise." 

The  one  who  held  the  dog  was  evidently  losing  patience. 

"  Say  yes  or  no,  yo'  young  devil,"  he  said,  and  he  made 
a  threatening  gesture.  "  We  conna  stand  here  aw  neet. 
Promise  ta  will  na  tell  mon,  woman,  nor  choild,  what  tha 
heerd  us  say.  When  I  say  '  three,'  I'll  drop  th'  dog. 
One — two—" 

The  look  of  almost  human  terror  in  Nib's  eyes  was  too 
much  for  his  master.  Desperation  filled  him.  He  could 
not  sacrifice  Nib — he  could  not  sacrifice  the  man  who  had 
been  Nib's  friend ;  but  he  might  make  a  sort  of  sacrifice 
of  himself  to  both. 

"  Stop  1  "  he  cried.     «  I'll  promise  yo'." 

He  had  saved  Nib,  but  there  was  some  parleying  before 
he  was  set  free,  notwithstanding  his  promise  to  be  silent. 
But  for  the  fact  that  he  was  under  the  control  of  the 
others  for  the  time  being,  Lowrie  would  have  resorted  tc 
harsher  precautions ;  but  possibly  influenced  by  a  touch 


188  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRI&S. 

of  admiration  for  the  lad,  the  youngest  man  held  out 
against  his  companions.  The}7  wrangled  together  for  a 
few  minutes,  and  then  Nib  was  handed  over. 

"  Here,  cut  an'  run,  tha  young  beggar,"  said  the 
fellow  who  had  stood  by  him,  "an'  dunnot  let's  hear  ony 
more  on  thee.  If  we  do,  it'll  be  worse  fur  thee  an'  th' 
dog  too.  So  look  out." 

Jud  did  not  wait  for  a  second  command.  The  instant 
he  felt  Nib  in  his  arms,  he  scudded  over  the  bare  space 
of  ground  before  him  at  his  best  speed.  They  should  not 
have  time  to  repent  their  decision.  If  the  men  had  seen 
his  face,  they  might  not  have  felt  so  safe.  But  the  truth 
was,  they  were  reckoning  upon  Jud  Bates  as  they  would 
have  reckoned  upon  any  other  young  Kiggan  rascal  of  hia 
age.  After  all,  it  was  not  so  much  his  promise  they  relied 
on  as  his  wholesome  fear  of  the  consequences  of  its  being 
broken.  It  was  not  a  matter  of  honor  but  of  dread. 


CHAPTER  XXVI1L 

WARNED. 

IT  was  even  later  than  usual  this  evening  when  Fergus 
Deriick  left  the  rectory.  When  Mr.  Barhohn  was  in  his 
talkative  mood,  it  was  not  easy  for  him  to  break  away. 
So  Derrick  was  fain  to  listen  and  linger,  and  then  supper 
was  brought  in  and  he  was  detained  again,  and  at  eleven 
o'clock  Mr.  Barholrn  suddenly  hit  upon  a  new  topic. 

"  By  the  bye,"  he  said,  u  where  is  that  fellow,  Low rie  ? 
I  thought  he  had  left  Riggan." 

u  He  did  leave  Riggan,"  answered  Derrick. 

"  So  I  heard,"  returned  the  rector,  "  and  I  suppose  I 
was  mistaken  in  fancying  I  caught  sight  of  him  to-day. 
I  don't  know  the  man  very  well  and  I  might  easily  be 
deceived.  But  where  is  he  \ " 

"  I  think,"  said  Derrick,  quietly,  "  that  he  is  in  Riggan. 
I  am  not  of  the  opinion  that  you  were  mistaken  at  all.  I 
am  sure  he  is  here,  but  for  reasons  of  his  own  he  is  keep 
ing  himself  quiet.  I  know  him  too  well  to  be  deceived 
by  any  fancied  resemblance." 

"  But  what  are  his  reasons  ? "  was  the  next  question. 
"  That  looks  bad,  you  know.  He  belongs  to  a  bad  crew." 

"  Bad  enough,"  said  Derrick. 

a  Is  it  a  grudge  ?  He  is  j  ust  the  rascal  to  bear  a 
grudge." 

"  Yes,"  said  Derrick.     "  It  is  a  grudge  against  me" 

He  looked  up  then  across  the  table  at  Anice  and  smiled 
reassuringly. 


190  THAT  LASS  O*  LOWRI&S. 

"  You  did  not  tell  us  that  you  had  seen  him,"  she  said. 

"  No.  You  think  I  ought  to  be  afraid  of  him,  and  I 
am  too  vain  to  like  to  admit  the  possibility  that  it  would 
be  better  to  fear  any  man,  even  a  Riggan  collier." 

"  But  such  a  man  !  "  put  in  Mrs.  Barholm.  "  It  seems 
to  me  he  is  a  man  to  be  feared." 

"  I  can  thrash  him,"  said  Derrick.  He  could  not  help 
feeling  some  enjoyment  in  this  certaint}7.  "  I  did  thrash 
him  upon  one  occasion,  you  know,  and  a  single  combat 
with  a  fellow  of  that  kind  is  oftener  than  not  decisive." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  rector,  "  that  is  the  principal  cause  of 
his  grudge,  I  think.  He  might  forgive  you  for  getting 
him  into  trouble,  but  he  will  never  forgive  you  for  thrash 
ing  him." 

They  were  still  sitting  at  the  table  discussing  the  mat 
ter,  when  A  nice,  who  sat  opposite  a  window,  rose  from 
her  seat,  and  crossing  the  room  to  it,  drew  aside  the  cur 
tain  and  looked  out. 

"  There  was  somebody  there,"  she  said,  in  answer  to 
the  questioning  in  the  faces  of  her  companions.  "  There 
was  a  face  pressed  close  against  the  glass  for  a  minute, 
and  I  am  sure  it  was  Jud  Bates." 

Derrick  sprang  from  his  chair.  To  his  mind,  it  did 
not  appear  at  all  unlikely  that  Jud  Bates  had  mischief  in 
hand.  There  were  apples  enough  in  the  rectory  garden 
to  be  a  sore  trial  to  youthful  virtue. 

He  opened  the  door  and  stepped  into  the  night,  and  in 
a  short  time  a  sharp  familiar  yelp  fell  upon  the  ears  of 
the  listeners.  Almost  immediately  after,  Derrick  returned, 
holding  the  trespasser  by  the  arm. 

It  was  Jud  Bates,  but  he  did  not  look  exactly  like  a 
convicted  culprit,  though  his  appearance  was  disordered 
enough.  He  was  pale  and  out  of  breath,  he  had  no  cap 


WAENED. 

on,  and  lie  was  holding  Nib,  panting  and  excited,  in  hi3 
arms. 

"  Jud,"  exclaimed  Anice,  "what  have  you  been  doing  ? 
"Why  did  you  come  to  the  window  ?  " 

Jud  drew  Nib  closer,  and  turned,  if  possible,  a  trifle 
paler. 

"  I  cooin,"  he  said,  tremulously,  "  to  look  in." 

Nobody  smiled. 

"  To  look  in  ? "  said  Anice.  "  Why,  whom  did  you 
want  to  see  ?  " 

Jud  jerked  his  elbow  at  Derrick. 

"  It  was  him?  he  answered.  "  I  wanted  to  see  if  he 
had  gone  home  yet." 

"  But  why  ?  "  she  asked  again. 

He  shuffled  his  feet  uneasily  and  his  eyes  fell.  He 
looked  down  at  Nib's  head  and  faltered. 

"  I — "  he  said.  "  I  wanted  to  stop  him.  I — I  dunnot 

know "  And  then  the  rest  came  in  a  burst.  "  He 

in unn ot  go,"  he  cried,  trembling  afresh.  "  He  mun  keep 
away  fro'  th'  Knoll  Road." 

The  party  exchanged  glances. 

"  There  is  mischief  in  hand,"  said  Mr.  Barholm  ;  "  that 
is  plain  enough." 

"  He  munnot  go,"  persisted  Jud  ;  "  he  mun  keep  away 
fro'  th'  Knoll  Road.  I'm  gettin'  myself  i'  trouble,"  he 
added,  the  indifference  of  despair  in  his  pale  face.  "  If 
I'm  fun  out  they'll  mill  me." 

Derrick  stepped  aside  into  the  hall  and  returned  with 
his  hat  in  his  hand.  He  looked  roused  and  determined. 

"  There  are  two  or  three  stout  colliers  in  Riggan  who 
are  my  friends,  I  think,"  he  said,  "and  I  am  going  to  ask 
them  to  face  the  Knoll  Road  with  me.  I  should  like  to 
settle  this  matter  to-night.  If  I  give  these  fellows  the 


192  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRI&S. 

chance  to  attack  me,  they  will  be  the  more  easily  disposed 
of.  A  few  years  in  jail  might  have  a  salutary  effect  upon 
Lowrie." 

In  his  momentary  heat,  he  forgot  all  but  the  strife  into 
which  he  was  forced.  He  did  not  question  Jud  closely. 
He  knew  Riggan  and  the  mining  districts  too  well  not  to 
have  a  clear  enough  idea  of  what  means  of  vengeance 
would  be  employed. 

But  when  he  got  out  into  the  night  he  had  not  gone 
many  yards  before  a  new  thought  flashed  upon  him,  and 
quickened  his  pulse.  It  was  not  a  pleasant  thought  be 
cause  it  checked  him,  and  he  was  in  a  mood  to  feel 
impatient  of  a  check.  But  he  could  not  throw  it  off. 
There  arose  within  his  mind  a  picture  of  a  silent  room  in 
a  cottage, — of  a  girl  sitting  by  the  hearth.  He  seemed  to 
see  quite  clearly  the  bent  head,  the  handsome  face,  the 
sad  eyes.  He  had  a  fancy  that  Liz  was  not  with  her  to 
night,  that  the  silence  of  the  room  was  only  broken  by  the 
soft  breathing  of  the  child  upon  Joan's  knee. 

He  stopped  with  an  impatient  gesture. 

"  What  was  I  thinking  of  ?  "  he  demanded  of  himself. 

O  ' 

"  to  have  forgotten  her,  and  what  my  madness  would 
bring  upon  her  ?  I  am  a  selfish  fool !  Let  it  go.  I  will 
give  it  up.  I  will  stay  in  Riggan  for  the  future — it  will 
not  be  long,  and  she  need  torture  herself  no  more.  I  will 
give  it  up.  Let  them  think  I  am  afraid  to  face  him.  I 
am  afraid — afraid  to  wound  the  woman  I— yes— the 
woman  I  love" 


CHAFTEE  XXIX. 

LYING  IN  WAIT. 

Liz  crept  close  to  the  window  arid  looked  down  the  road. 
At  this  time  of  the  year  it  was  not  often  that  the  sun  set 
in  as  fair  a  sky.  In  October,  Riggan  generally  shut  its 
doors  against  damps  and  mist,  and  turned  toward  its  fire 
when  it  had  one.  And  yet  Liz  had  hardly  seen  that  the 
sun  had  shone  at  all  to-day.  Still,  seeing  her  face,  a 
passer-by  would  not  have  fancied  that  she  was  chilled. 
There  was  a  flush  upon  her  cheeks,  and  her  eyes  were 
more  than  usually  bright.  She  was  watching  for  Joan 
with  a  restless  eagerness. 

"  She's  late,"  she  said.  "  I  mought  ha'  knowed  she'd 
be  late.  I  vvisht  she'd  coorn — I  do.  An'  yet — an'  yet  I'm 
feart.  I  wisht  it  wur  over;"  and  she  twisted  her  fingers 
together  nervously. 

She  had  laid  the  child  upon  the  bed,  and  presently  it 
roused  her  with  a  cry.  She  went  to  it,  took  it  up  into 
her  arms,  and,  carrying  it  to  the  fire,  sat  down. 

"  Why  couldn't  tha  stay  asleep  ? "  she  said.  "  1  nivver 
seed  a  choild  loike  thee." 

But  the  next  minute,  the  little  creature  whimpering, 
she  bent  down  in  impatient  repentance  and  kissed  it, 
whimpering  too. 

"Dnnnot,"   she   said.     "I    conna    bear  to    hear   thee. 
Hush,  thee !  tha  goes  on  as  if  tha  knew.     Eh !  but  I  mun 
be  a   bad  lass.     Ay,  I'm  bad  through  an'  through,  an'  I 
conna  be  no  worse  nor  I  am." 
9 


194  THAT  LASS  G1  LOWRI&S. 

She  did  not  kiss  the  child  again,  but  held  it  in  her  listless 
way  even  after  it  fell  asleep.  She  rested  an  elbow  on  her 
knee  and  her  chin  upon  her  hand  while  her  tearful  eyes 
searched  the  fire,  and  thus  Joan  found  her  when  she  came 
in  at  dusk. 

"  Tha'rt  late  again,  Joan,"  she  said. 

u  Ay,"  Joan  answered,  "  I'm  late." 

She  laid  her  things  aside  and  came  to  the  fire-light 
The  little  one  always  won  her  first  attention  when  she 
came  from  her  day's  labor. 

"  Has  she  been  f  rettin'  ? "  she  asked. 

"  Ay,"  said  Liz,  "  she's  done  nowt  else  but  fret  lately. 
I  dunnot  know  what  ails  her." 

She  was  in  Joan's  arms  by  this  time  and  Joan  stood 
looking  at  the  puny  face. 

"  She  is  na  well,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "  She  has 
pain  as  we  know  nowt  on,  poor  little  lass.  We  conna  help 
her,  or  bear  it  fur  her.  We  would  if  we  could,  little  un," 
— as  if  she  forgot  Liz's  presence. 

"  Joan,"  Liz  faltered,  "  what  if  yo  were  to  lose  her  ? " 

"  I  hope  I  shanna.     I  hope  I  shanna." 

"  Yo'  could  na  bear  it  ?  " 

"  Theer  is  na  mich  as  we  conna  bear." 

"  That's  true  enow,"  said  Liz.  "  I  wish  foak  could  dee 
o'  trouble." 

"  Theer's  more  nor  yo'  has  wished  th'  same,"  Joan  an 
swered. 

She  thought  afterward  of  the  girl's  words  and  remem 
bered  how  she  looked  when  she  uttered  them, — her  piteous 
eyes  resting  on  the  embers,  her  weak  little  mouth  quiver 
ing,  her  small  hands  at  work, —  but  when  she  heard 
them,  she  only  recognized  in  them  a  new  touch  of  the  old 
petulance  to  which  she  had  become  used. 


LYING  IN  WAIT.  195 

Joan  went  about  her  usual  tasks,  holding  the  baby  in 
her  arms.  She  prepared  the  evening  meal  with  Liz's  assist 
ance  and  they  sat  down  to  eat  it  together.  Bat  Liz  had 
little  appetite.  Indeed  neither  of  them  ate  much  and  both 
were  more  than  usually  silent.  A  shadow  of  reserve 
had  lately  fallen  between  them. 

After  the  meal  was  ended  they  drew  their  seats  to  the 
hearth  again,  and  Liz  went  back  to  her  brooding  over  the 
iire.  Joan,  lulling  the  child,  sat  and  watched  her.  All 
Liz's  beauty  had  returned  to  her.  Her  soft,  rough  hair  was 
twisted  into  a  curly  knot  upon  her  small  head,  her  pretty, 
babyish  face  was  at  its  best  of  bloom  and  expression — that 
absent,  subdued  look  was  becoming  to  her. 

"Theer's  honest  men  as  mought  ha'  loved  her,"  said  Joan, 
inwardly.  "  Theer's  honest  men  as  would  ha'  made  her 
life  happy." 

It  was  just  as  she  was  thinking  this  that  Liz  turned 
round  to  her : 

"  If  she  lived  to  be  a  woman,"  with  a  gesture  toward  the 
child ;  "  if  she  lived  to  be  a  woman,  do  yo'  think  as  she'd 
remember  me  if — if  owt  should  happen  to  me  now  \  " 

"  I  conna  tell,"  Joan  answered,  "  but  I'd  try  to  mak' 
her." 

"  Would  yo'  ? "  and  then  she  dropped  her  face  upon  her 
hands.  "  It  ud  be  best  if  she'd  forget  me,"  she  said.  "  It 
ud  be  best  if  she'd  forget  me." 

"  Nay,  Liz,"  said  Joan.     "  Tha'rt  out  o'  soarts." 

"  Ay,  I  am,"  said  the  girl,  "  an'  I  need  be.  Eh,  Joan ! 
tha'rt  a  good  wench.  I  wish  I  wur  loike  thee." 

"  Tha  need  na,  lass." 

u  But  I  do.  Tha'd  nivver  go  wrong  i'  th'  world.  Nowt 
could  mak'  thee  go  wrong.  Tha'rt  so  strong  like.  An' 
tha'rt  patient,  too,  Joan,  an'  noan  loike  the  rest  o' 


196  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRIJPS. 

I  dunnot  think — if  owt  wur  to  happen  me  now — a,s  tha'd 
ha'  hard  thowts  o'  me.  Wouldst  tha  ?  "  wistfully. 

"  Nay,  lass.  I've  been  fond  o'  thee,  an'  sorry  fur  thee 
and  if  tha  wur  to  dee  tha  mayst  mak'  sure  I'd  noan  be 
hard  on  thee.  But  tha  art  na  goin'  to  dee,  I  hope." 

To  her  surprise  the  girl  caught  her  hand,  and,  pulling 
it  down  upon  her  knee,  laid  her  cheek  against  it  and  burst 
into  tears. 

"  I  dunnot  know  :     I  mouorht,  or — or — suramat.     But 

7  O         ' 

nivver  tha  turn  agen  me,  Joan, — nivver  tha  hate  me.  I 
am  na  loike  thee, — I  wur  na  made  loike  thee.  1  conna 
stand  up  agen  things,  but  I  dunnot  think  as  I'm  so  bad  as 
foaks  say ! " 

When  this  impassioned  mood  passed  away,  she  was 
silent  again  for  a  long  time.  The  baby  fell  asleep  upon 
Joan's  breast,  but  she  did  not  move  it, — she  liked  to  feel 
it  resting  there  ;  its  close  presence  always  seemed  to  bring 
her  peace.  At  length,  however,  Liz  spoke  once  more. 

"  Wheer  wur  thy  fey ther  goin'  wi'  Spring  an'  Braddy  ?  " 
she  asked. 

Joan  turned  a  pale  face  toward  her. 

"  Wheer  did  yo'  see  him  wi'  Spring  an'  Braddy  ? " 

"  Here,"  was  Liz's  reply.  "  He  wur  here  this  afternoon 
wi'  em.  They  did  na  coom  in,  though, — they  waited  i'  th' 
road,  while  he  went  i'  th'  back  room  theer  fur  summat.  I 
think  it  wur  a  bottle.  It  wur  that  he  coom  fur,  I  know, 
fur  I  heerd  Braddy  say  to  him,  '  Hast  getten  it  ? '  an'  thy 
feyther  said,  '  Ay,'  an'  th'  other  two  laughed  as  if  they  wur 
on  a  spree  o'  some  soart." 

Joan  rose  from  her  chair,  white  and  shaking. 

"  Tak'  th'  choild,"  she  said,  hoarsely.      "  I'm  goin'  out.' 

"Out!"  cried  Liz.  "Nay,  dunnot  go  out.  What  ai la 
thee,  Joan  ? " 


LYING  IN  WAIT.  197 

"  I  ha'  summat  to  do,"  said  Joan.  "  Stay  tha  here  with 
th'  choild."  And  almost  before  she  finished  speaking  she 
was  gone,  and  the  door  had  closed  behind  her. 

There  would  be  three  of  them  against  one  man.  She 
walked  faster  as  she  thought  of  it,  and  her  breath  wad 
drawn  heavily. 

Lowrie  bent  down  in  his  hiding-place,  smiling  grimly. 
He  knelt  upon  the  grass  behind  a  hedge  at  the  road-side. 
He  had  reached  the  place  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before,  and 
he  had  chosen  his  position  as  coolly  as  if  he  had  been  sit 
ting  down  to  take  his  tramp  dinner  in  the  shade.  There 
was  a  gap  in  the  hedge  and  he  must  not  be  too  near  to  it  or 
too  far  from  it.  It  would  be  easier  to  rush  through  this 
gap  than  to  leap  the  hedge  ;  but  he  must  not  risk  being  seen. 
The  corner  where  the  other  men  lay  concealed  was  not  far 
above  him.  It  was  only  a  matter  of  a  few  yards,  but  if  he 
Btood  to  wait  at  one  turn  and  the  engineer  took  the  other, 
the  game  would  escape.  So  he  had  placed  his  comrades  at 
the  second,  and  he  had  taken  the  first. 

"  I'd  loike  to  ha'  th'  first  yammer  at  him,"  he  had  said, 
savagely.  "  Yo'  can  coom  when  yo'  hear  me." 

As  he  waited  by  the  hedge,  he  put  his  hand  out  stealthily 
toward  his  "knob-stick"  and  drew  it  nearer,  saying  to 
himself : 

"  When  I  ha'  done  settlin'  wi'  him  fur  mysen,  I  shall  ha' 
a  bit  o'  an  account  to  settle  fur  her.  If  it's  his  good  looks 
as  she's  takken  wi',  she'll  be  noan  so  fond  on  him  when  she 
sees  him  next,  I'll  warrant." 

He  had  hit  upon  the  greater  villainy  of  stopping  short 
of  murder, — if  he  could  contain  himself  when  the  time 
came. 

At  this  instant  a  sound   reached  his  ears  which  caused 


198  THAT  LASS  V  LOWRIES. 

him  to  start.  Ho  bent  forward  slightly  toward  the  gap  tc 
listen.  There  were  footsteps  upon  the  road  above  him — 
footsteps  that  sounded  familiar.  Clouds  had  drifted  across 
the  sky  and  darkened  it,  but  he  had  heard  that  tread  too 
often  to  mistake  it  now  when  every  nerve  was  strung  to 
its  highest  tension.  A  cold  sweat  broke  out  upon  him  in 
the  impotence  of  his  wrath. 

"  It's  th'  lass  hersen,"  he  said.  "  She's  heerd  summat, 
an'  she's  as  good  as  her  word  !  " — with  an  oath. 

He  got  up  and  stood  a  second  trembling  with  rage. 
He  drew  his  sleeve  across  his  forehead  and  wiped  away 
the  sweat,  and  then  turned  round  sharply. 

"  I'll  creep  up  th'  road  an'  meet  her  afore  she  reaches 
th'  first  place,"  he  panted.  "  If  she  sees  th'  lads,  it's  aw 
up  wi'  us.  Til  teach  her  summat  as  she'll  noan  forget." 

He  was  out  into  the  Knoll  Road  in  a  minute  more. 

"  I'll  teach  her  to  go  agen  me,"  he  muttered.  "  I'll 

teach  her,  by "  But  the  sentence  was  never  ended. 

There  was  a  murmur  he  did  not  understand,  a  rush,  a 
heavy  rain  of  blows,  a  dash  of  something  in  his  face 
that  scorched  like  liquid  fire,  and  with  a  shriek,  he  fell 
writhing. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE  SLIP  OF  PAPER. 

A  MINUTE  later  there  rushed  past  Joan,  in  the  darkness, 
two  men, — stumbling  and  cursing  as  they  went,  out  of 
breath,  horror-stricken  and  running  at  the  top  of  their 
speed. 

"  It  wur  Lowrie  hissen,  by !  "  she  heard  one  say,  aa 

he  dashed  by. 

"  Feyther !  Feyther,  wheer  are  yo'  ?  Feyther,  are  yo' 
nigh  me  ? "  she  cried,  for  she  heard  both  the  blows  and  the 
shriek. 

But  there  came  no  answer  to  her  ear.  The  rapid  feet 
beating  upon  the  road,  their  echo  dying  in  the  distance, 
made  the  only  sound  that  broke  the  stillness.  There  was 
not  even  a  groan.  Yet  a  few  paces  from  her,  lay  a  bat 
tered,  bleeding  form.  There  was  no  starlight  now,  she 
could  see  only  the  vague  outline  of  the  figure,  which  might 
be  that  of  either  one  man  or  the  other.  For  an  instant,  the 
similarity  in  stature  which  had  deceived  his  blundering 
companions,  deceived  her  also  ;  but  when  she  knelt  down 
and  touched  the  shoulder,  she  knew  it  was  not  the  master 
who  lay  before  her. 

"  It's  feyther  hissen,"  she  said,  and  then  she  drew  away 
her  hand,  shuddering.  "  It's  wet  wi'  blood,"  she  said. 
"It's  wet  wi'  blood!" 

He  did  not  hear  her  when  she  spoke  ;  he  was  not  con 
scious  that  she  tried  to  raise  him  ;  his  head  hung  forward 
when  she  lifted  him;  he  lay  heavily,  and  without  motion, 
upon  her  arms. 


200  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWBOF3. 

"  They  ha*  killed  him  !  "  she  said.  "  How  is  it,  as  it  ia 
ria  Mm  f  " 

There  was  neither  light  nor  help  nearer  than  "  The 
Crown"  itself,  and  when  her  brain  became  clearer,  she 
remembered  this.  Without  light  and  assistance,  she  could 
do  nothing;  she  could  not  even  see  what  hurt  he  had  sus 
tained.  Dead  or  dying,  he  must  lie  here  until  she  had 
time  to  get  help. 

She  took  off  her  shawl,  and  folding  it,  laid  his  head 
gently  upon  it.  Then  she  put  her  lips  to  his  ear. 

"  Feyther,"  she  said,  "  I'm  goin'  to  bring  help  to  thee. 
If  tha  con  hear  me,  stir  thy  hond." 

He  did  not  stir  it,  so  she  disengaged  her  arm  as  gently 
as  possible,  and,  rising  to  her  feet,  went  on  her  way. 

There  were  half  a  dozen  men  in  the  bar-room  when  she 
pushed  the  door  inward  and  stood  upon  the  threshold. 
They  looked  up  in  amazement. 

"  Those  on  yo'  as  want  to  help  a  deeing  mon,"  she  said, 
"come  wi'  me.  My  feyther's  lyin'  in  the  Knoll  Road, 
done  to  death." 

All  were  astir  in  a  moment.  Lanterns  and  other  neces 
saries  were  provided,  and  bearing  one  of  these  lanterns 
herself,  Joan  led  the  way. 

As  she  stepped  out  onto  the  pavement  a  man  was  pass 
ing,  and,  attracted  by  the  confusion,  turned  to  the  crowd : 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  he  asked. 

"There's  a  mon  been  killed  up  on  th'  Knoll  Road," 
answered  one  of  the  colliers.  "It's  this  lass's  feyther, 
Dan  Lowrie." 

The  man  strode  into  the  light  and  showed  an  agitated 
face. 

"  Killed ! "  he  said,  "  Dan  Lowrie  !  " 

It  was  Fergus  Derrick. 


THE  SLIP  OF  PAPER.  201 

He  recognized  Joan  immediately,  and  went  to  her. 

"  For  pity's  sake,"  he  exclaimed,  "  don't  go  with  them. 
If  what  they  say  is  true,  this  is  no  place  for  you.  Let  me 
take  you  home.  You  ought  not " 

"  It  wur  me,"  interrupted  Joan,  in  a  steady  voice,  "  as 
found  him." 

He  could  not  persuade  her  to  remain  behind,  so  he 
walked  on  by  her  side.  He  asked  her  no  questions.  He 
knew  enough  to  understand  that  his  enemy  had  reaped  the 
whirlwind  he  had  himself  sown. 

It  was  he  who  knelt  first  by  the  side  of  the  prostrate 
man,  holding  the  lantern  above  the  almost  unrecognizable 

/  O  O 

face.  Then  he  would  have  raised  the  lifeless  hand,  but 
Joan,  who  had  bent  down  near  him,  stopped  him  with  a 
quick  move. 

"Durniot  do  that,"  she  faltered,  and  when  he  looked 
up  in  surprise,  he  comprehended  her  meaning,  even  before 
she  added,  in  a  passionate  undertone,  the  miserable  words  : 

u  Tiler's  blood  on  it,  as  might  ha'  bin  yore  own." 

"  Theer's  a  bottle  here,"  some  one  cried  out  suddenly. 
"  A  bottle  as  I  just  set  my  foot  on.  Chaps,  theer's  been 
vitriol  thro  wed." 

"  Ay,"  cried  another,  "  so  theer  has ;  chaps,  look  yo'  here. 
Th}  villains  has  vitrioled  him." 

They  laid  him  upon  the  shutter  they  had  brought,  and 
carried  him  homeward.  Joan  and  Derrick  were  nearest 
to  him  as  they  walked. 

They  were  not  far  from  the  cottage,  and  it  was  not  long 
before  the  light  glimmered  through  the  window  upon  them. 
Seeing  it,  Joan  turned  to  Derrick  suddenly. 

"  I  mun  hurry  on  before,"  she  said.  "  I  rnun  go  and 
say  a  word  to  Liz.  Couiin'  aw  at  onct  th  soight  ud  feai 
her." 

9* 


202  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRIETS. 

Reaching  the  house,  she  pushed  the  door  open  and  went 
in.  Everything  was  so  quiet  that  she  fancied  the  girl 
must  have  gone  to  bed. 

"  Liz/'  she  said  aloud.     «  Liz  ! " 

Her  voice  fell  with  an  echoing  sound  upon  the  silent 
room.  She  looked  at  the  bed  and  saw  the  child  lying  there 
asleep.  Liz  was  not  with  it.  She  passed  quickly  into  the 
room  adjoining  and  glanced  around.  It  was  empty.  Moved 
by  some  impulse  she  went  back -to  the  bed,  and  in  bending 
over  the  child,  saw  a  slip  of  paper  pinned  upon  its  breast 
and  upon  this  paper  Joan  read,  in  the  sprawling,  uncer 
tain  hand  she  knew  so  well : 

"  Dunnot  be  hard  on  me,  Joan,  dunnot —  Good-lye  !  " 

"When  Derrick  entered  the  door,  he  found  Joan  standing 
alone  in  the  center  of  the  room,  holding  the  scrap  of  paper 
in  her  hand. 


CHAPTEK  XXXI. 

THE    LAST    BLOW. 

"  HE  wodt  live,"  the  doctor  said  to  Derrick.  "  He's  not 
tlie  man  to  get  over  such  injuries,  powerful  as  he  looks. 
He  has  been  a  reckless,  drunken  brute,  and  what  with  the 
shock  and  reaction  nothing  will  save  him.  The  clumsy 
rascals  who  attacked  him  meant  to  do  him  harm  enough, 
but  they  have  done  him  more  than  they  intended,  or  at 
least  the  man's  antecedents  will  help  them  to  a  result  they 
may  not  have  aimed  at.  We  may  as  well  tell  the  girl, 
I  suppose — fine  creature,  that  girl,  by  the  way.  She  won't 
have  any  sentimental  regrets.  It's  a  good  riddance  for 
her,  to  judge  from  what  I  know  of  them." 

"  I  will  tell  her,"  said  Derrick. 

She  listened  to  him  with  no  greater  show  of  emotion 
than  an  increased  pallor.  She  remembered  the  wounded 
man  only  as  a  bad  husband  and  a  bad  father.  Her  life 
would  have  been  less  hard  to  bear  if  he  had  died  years  ago, 
but  now  that  death  stood  near  him,  a  miserable  sense  of 
desolateness  fell  upon  her,  inconsistent  as  such  a  feeling 
might  seem. 

The  village  was  full  of  excitement  during  this  week. 
Everybody  was  ready  with  suggestions  and  conjectures, 
everybody  wanted  to  account  for  the  assault.  At  first  there 
seemed  no  accounting  for  it  at  all,  but  at  length  some  one 
recollected  that  Lowrie  had  been  last  seen  with  Spring 
and  Braddy.  They  had  "  getten  up  a  row  betwixt  their- 
sens,  and  t'others  had  punsed  him." 


204  THAT  LASS  0'  LO  WRISTS. 

The  greatest  mystery  was  the  use  of  vitriol.  It  could 
only  be  decided  that  it  had  not  been  an  ordinary  case  of 
neighborly  "  punsing,"  and  that  there  must  have  been  a 
"  grudge  "  in  the  matter.  Spring  and  Braddy  had  disap 
peared,  and  all  efforts  to  discover  their  whereabouts  were 
unavailing. 

On  the  subject  of  Liz's  flight  Joan  was  silent,  but  it  did 
not  remain  a  secret  many  hours.  A  collier's  wife  had  seen 
her  standing,  crying,  and  holding  a  little  bundle  on  her 
arm  at  the  corner  of  a  lane,  and  having  been  curious  enough 
to  watch,  had  also  seen  Landsell  join  her  a  few  minutes 
later. 

"  She  wur  whimperin'  afore  he  coom,"  said  the  woman, 
"  but  she  cried  i'  good  earnest  when  he  spoke  to  her,  an' 
talked  to  him  an'  hung  back  as  if  she  could  na  mak'  up 
her  rnoind  whether  to  go  or  no.  She  wur  a  soft  thing, 
that  wench,  it  wur  allus  whichivver  way  th'  wind  blowed 
wi'  her.  I  could  nivver  see  what  that  lass  o'  Lowrie's 
wanted  wi'  her.  Now  she's  getten  th'  choild  on  her 
bonds." 

The  double  shock  had  numbed  Joan.  She  went  about 
the  place  and  waited  upon  her  father  in  a  dull,  mechani 
cal  way.  She  said  but  little  to  the  curious  crowd,  who,  on 
pretense  of  being  neighborly,  flocked  to  the  house.  She 
even  had  very  little  to  say  to  Anice.  Perhaps  after  all, 
her  affection  for  poor  Liz  had  been  a  stronger  one  than 
she  had  thought. 

"  I  think,"  Grace  said  gently  to  A.nice,  "  that  she  does 
not  exactly  need  us  yet." 

He  made  the  remark  in  the  rector's  presence  and  the 
Reverend  Harold  did  not  agree  with  him. 

"I  am  convinced  that  you  are  mistaken,  Grace,"  he 
said.  "You  area  little  too — well,  too  delicately  meta 


THE  LAST  BLOW.  205 

physical  for  these  people.  You  have  sensitive  fanciea 
about  them,  and  they  are  not  a  sensitive  class.  What 
they  want  is  good  strong  doctrine,  and  a  certain  degree 
of  wholesome  frankness.  They  need  teaching.  That 
young  woman,  now — it  seems  to  me  that  this  is  the  time 
to  rouse  her  to  a  sense  of  her — her  moral  condition.  She 
ought  to  be  roused,  and  so  ought  the  man.  It  is  a  great 
pity  that  he  is  unconscious." 

Of  Joan's  strange  confession  of  faith,  Anice  had  told 
him  something,  but  he  had  been  rather  inclined  to  pro 
nounce  it  "  emotional,"  and  somehow  or  other  could  not 
quite  divest  himself  of  the  idea  that  she  needed  the  special 
guidance  of  a  well-balanced  and  experienced  mind.  The 
well-balanced  and  experienced  mind  in  view  was  his  own, 
though  of  course  he  was  not  aware  of  the  fact  that  he 
would  not  have  been  satisfied  with  that  of  any  other  in 
dividual.  He  was  all  the  more  disinclined  to  believe  in 
Joan's  conversion  because  his  interviews  with  her  continued 
to  be  as  unsatisfactory  as  ever.  Her  manner  had  altered ; 
she  had  toned  down  somewhat,  but  she  still  caused  him 
to  feel  ill  at  ease.  If  she  did  not  defy  him  any  longer  or 
set  his  teachings  at  naught,  her  grave  eyes,  resting  on  him 
silently,  had  sometimes  the  effect  of  making  his  words 
fail  him ;  which  was  a  novel  experience  with  the  rector. 

In  a  few  days  Lowrie  began  to  sink  visibly.  As  the 
doctor  predicted,  the  reaction  was  powerful,  and  remedies 
were  of  no  avail.  He  lay  upon  the  bed,  at  times  uncon- 
BCIUUS,  at  times  tossing  to  and  fro  in  delirium.  During 
her  watching  at  the  bedside,  Joan  learned  the  truth. 
Sometimes  he  fancied  himself  tramping  the  Knoll  Road 
homeward  through  the  rain,  and  then  he  muttered  sullenly 
of  the  "  day  "  that  was  coming  to  him,  and  the  vengeance 


206  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRI&3. 

he  was  returning  to  take ;  sometimes  lie  went  through  the 
scene  with  Joan  herself,  and  again,  he  waited  behind  the 
hedge  for  his  enemy,  one  moment  exultant,  the  next  striv 
ing  to  struggle  to  his  feet  with  curses  upon  his  lips  and 
rage  in  his  heart,  as  he  caught  the  sound  of  the  advancing 
steps  he  knew  so  well.  As  he  went  over  these  scenes  again 
and  again,  it  was  plain  enough  to  the  listener  that  his  ven 
geance  had  fallen  upon  his  own  head. 

The  day  after  he  received  his  hurts  a  collier  dropped 
into  "  The  Crown  "  with  a  heavy  stick  in  his  hand. 

"  I  fun  this  knob-stick  nigh  a  gap  i'  th'  hedge  on  th' 
Knoll  Road,"  he  said.  "  It  war  na  fur  fro'  wheer  they 
fun  Lowrie.  Happen  them  chaps  laid  i'  wait  fur  him  an' 
it  belongs  to  one  o'  'em." 

u  Let's  ha'  a  look  at  it,"  said  a  young  miner,  and  on  its 
being  handed  to  him  he  inspected  it  closely. 

"  Why  ! "  he  exclaimed.  "  It's  Lowrie's  own.  1  seed 
him  wi'  it  th'  day  afore  he  wur  hurt.  I  know  th'  shape  oj 
th'  knob.  How  could  it  ha'  coom  theer  ? " 

But  nobody  could  guess.  It  was  taken  to  Joan  and  she 
listened  to  the  story  without  comment.  There  was  no  rea 
son  why  they  should  be  told  what  she  had  already  discov 
ered. 

When  Lowrie  died,  Anice  and  Grace  were  in  the  room 
with  Joan.  After  the  first  two  days  the  visitors  had 
dropped  off.  They  had  satisfied  their  curiosity.  Lowrie 
was  not  a  favorite,  and  Joan  had  always  seemed  to  stand 
apart  from  her  fellows,  so  they  were  left  to  themselves. 

Jean  was  standing  near  the  bed  when  there  came  to  him 
his  first  and  last  gleam  of  consciousness.  The  sun  was 
Betting  and  its  farewell  glow  streaming  through  the  window 
fell  upon  his  disfigured  face  and  sightless  eyes.  He  roused 
himself,  moving  uneasily. 


THE  LAST  BLOW.  207 

"  "WLat's  up  wij  me  ? "  he  muttered.  "  I  conna  see — 1 
conna — " 

Joan  stepped  forward. 

"  Feyther."  she  said. 

Tlieu  memory  seemed  to  return  to  him.  An  angry 
light  shot  across  his  face.  lie  flung  out  his  hands  and 
groaned : 

"What!"  he  cried,  "tha  art  theer,  art  tha?  "  and  help 
less  and  broken  as  he  was,  he  wore  that  moment  a  look 
Joan  had  long  ago  learned  to  understand. 

"Ay,  feyther,"  she  answered. 

It  appeared  as  if,  during  the  few  moments  in  which  he 
lay  gasping,  a  fall  recognition  of  the  fact  that  he  had  been 
baffled  and  beaten  after  all — that  his  plotting  had  been  of 
no  avail — forced  itself  upon  him.  He  made  an  effort  to 
speak  once  or  twice  and  failed,  but  at  last  the  words  came. 

"  Tha  went  agen  me,  did  tha  \ "  he  panted.  "  Dom 
thee !  "  and  with  a  struggle  to  summon  all  his  strength,  he 
raised  himself,  groping,  struck  at  her  with  his  clenched 
hand,  and  failing  to  reach  her,  fell  forward  with  his  face 
upon  the  bed. 

It  was  all  over  when  they  raised  him  and  laid  him  back 
again.  Joan  stood  upright,  trembling  a  little,  but  other 
wise  cairn. 


CHAPTER 

"  TUKNED  METHODY  !  " 

Ir  had  been  generally  expected  that  when  all  was  cvei 
the  cottage  upon  the  Knoll  Road  would  be  closed  and 
deserted,  but  some  secret  fancy  held  Joan  to  the  spot. 
Perhaps  the  isolation  suited  her  mood  ;  perhaps  the  mere 
sense  of  familiarity  gave  her  comfort. 

"  I  should  na  be  less  lonely  any  wheer  else,"  she  said  to 
Anice  Barholm.  "  Theer's  more  here  as  I  feel  near  to 
than  i'  any  other  place.  I  ha'  no  friends,  yo'  know.  As 
to  th'  clioild,  I  con  carry  it  to  Thwaite's  wife  i'  th'  mornin' 
when  I  go  to  th'  pit,  an'  she'll  look  after  it  till  neet,  for  a 
trifle.  She's  getten  childern  o'  her  own,  and  knows  their 
ways." 

So  she  went  backward  and  forward  night  and  morning 
with  her  little  burden  in  her  arms.  The  child  was  a  frail, 
tiny  creature,  never  strong,  and  often  suffering,  and  its  very 
frailty  drew  Joan  nearer  to  it.  It  was  sadly  like  Liz,  pretty 
and  infantine.  Many  a  rough  bat  experienced  mother, 
seeing  it,  prophesied  that  its  battle  with  life  would  be 
brief.  With  the  pretty  face,  it  had  inherited  also  the  help 
less,  irresolute,  appealing  look.  Joan  saw  this  in  tho 
baby's  eyes  sometimes  and  was  startled  at  its  familiarity  ; 
even  the  low,  fretted  cry  had  in  it  something  that  was 
painfully  like  its  girl-mother's  voice.  More  than  once  a 
sense  of  fear  had  come  upon  Joan  when  she  heard  and 
recognized  it.  But  her  love  only  seemed  to  strengthen 
with  her  dread. 


"TURNED  METHOD Y:  209 

Day  by  day  those  who  worked  with  her  felt  more  strongly 
the  change  developing  so  subtly  in  the  girl.  The  massive 
beauty  which  had  almost  seemed  to  scorn  itself  was  begin- 
nirig  to  wear  a  different  aspect;  the  defiant  bitterness  of 
look  and  tone  was  almost  a  thing  of  the  past ;  the  rough, 
contemptuous  speech  was  less  scathing  and  more  merciful 
when  at  rare  intervals  it  broke  forth. 

"  Summat  has  coom  over  her,"  they  said  among  them 
selves.  "  Happen  it  wur  trouble.  She  wur  different, 
somehow." 

They  were  somewhat  uneasy  under  this  alteration  ;  but 
on  the  whole,  the  general  feeling  was  by  no  means  un 
friendly.  Time  had  been  when  they  had  known  Joan 
Lowrie  only  as  a  "  lass  "  who  held  herself  aloof,  and  yet  in 
a  manner  overruled  them ;  but  in  these  days  more  than 
one  stunted,  overworked  girl  or  woman  found  her  hard 
task  rendered  easier  by  Joan's  strength  and  swiftness. 

It  was  true  that  his  quiet  and  unremitted  efforts  had 
smoothed  Grace's  path  to  some  extent.  There  were  ill- 
used  women  whom  he  had  helped  and  comforted  ;  there 
were  neglected  children  whose  lives  he  had  contrived  to 
brighten  ;  there  were  unbelievers  whose  scoffing  his  gen 
tle  simplicity  and  long-suffering  had  checked  a  little.  He 
could  be  regarded  no  longer  with  contempt  in  Kiggan  ;  he 
even  had  his  friends  there. 

Among  those  who  still  mildly  jeered  at  the  little  parson 
stood  foremost,  far  more  through  vanity  than  malice,  "  Owd 
Sammy  Craddock."  A  couple  of  months  after  Lowrie's 
death,  "  Owd  Sammy  "  had  sauntered  clown  to  the  mine 
one  day,  and  was  entertaining  a  group  of  admirers  when 
Grace  went  by. 

It  chanced  that,  for  some  reason  best  krown  to  himself, 
Sammy  was  by  no  means  in  a  good  humor.  Something 


210  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRI&S. 

had  gone  wrong  at  home  or  abroad,  and  his  grievance  had 
rankled  and  rendered  him  unusually  contumacious. 

Nearing  the  group,  Grace  looked  up  with  a  faint  but 
kindly  smile. 

"  Good-morning  !  "  he  said  ;  "  a  pleasant  day,  friends !  " 

"  Owd  Sammy"  glanced  down  at  him  with  condescend 
ing  tolerance.  He  had  been  talking  himself,  and  the  greet 
ing  had  broken  in  upon  his  eloquence. 

"  Which  on  us,"  he  asked  dryly  ;  "  which  on  us  said  it 
wur  na  ? " 

A  few  paces  from  the  group  of  idlers  Joan  Lowrie  stood 
at  work.  Some  of  the  men  had  noted  her  presence  when 
they  lounged  by,  but  in  the  enjoyment  of  their  gossip,  they 
had  forgotten  her  again.  She  had  seen  Grace  too  ;  she  had 
heard  his  greeting  and  the  almost  brutal  lauo;li  that  followed 

o  O  *D 

it ;  and,  added  to  this,  she  had  caught  a  passing  glimpse  of 
the  curate's  face.  She  dropped  her  work,  and,  before  the 
laugh  had  died  oat,  stood  up  confronting  the  loungers. 

"  If  theer  is  a  inon  among  yo'  as  he  has  harmed,"  she 
said  ;  "  if  theer's  one  among  yo'  as  he's  ivver  done  a  wrong 
to,  let  that  mon  speak  up." 

It  was  "  Owd  Sammy  "  who  was  the  first  to  recover  him 
self.  Probably  he  remembered  the  power  he  prided  him 
self  upon  wielding  over  the  weaker  sex.  He  laid  aside  his 
pipe  for  a  moment  and  tried  sarcasm, — an  adaptation  of 
the  same  sarcasm  he  had  tried  upon  the  curate. 

4i  Which  on  us  said  theer  wur?  "  he  asked. 

Joan  turned  her  face,  pale  with  repressed  emotion, 
toward  him. 

"  There  be  men  here  as  I  would  scarce  ha'  believed  could 
ha'  had  much  agen  him.  I  see  one  mon  here  as  has  a  wife 
as  lay  nigh  death  a  month  or  so  ago,  an'  it  were  the  parson 
as  went  to  see  her  day  after  day,  an'  tuk  her  help  and 


"TURNED  HETHODY."  211 

comfort.  Thcer's  another  raon  here  as  had  a  little  tin  to 
dee,  an'  when  it  deed,  it  wur  th'  parson  as  knelt  by  ita 
bed  an'  held  its  hond  an'  talkt  to  it  when  it  were  feart 
Theer's  otlier  men  here  as  had  help  fro'  him  as  they  did 
na  know  of,  an'  it  wur  help  from  a  mon  as  wur  na  far 
fro'  a-bein'  as  poor  an'  hard  worked  i'  his  way  as  they  are 
i'  theirs.  Happen  th'  mon  I  speak  on  dnnnot  know  much 
about  th'  sick  wife,  an'  deein  choild,  an'  what  wur  done  for 
'em,  an'  if  they  dunnot,  it's  th'  parson's  fault." 

"  Why  ! "  broke  in  "  Owd  Sammy."  «  Blame  me,  if  tha 
art  na  turned  Methody  !  Blame  me,"  in  amazement,  "  if 
tha  art  na  !  " 

"  Nay,"  her  face  softening  ;  "  it  is  na  Methody  so  much. 
Happen  I'm  turnin'  woman,  fur  1  conna  abide  to  see  a 
hurt  gi'en  to  them  as  has  na  earned  it.  That  wur  why  I 
spoke.  I  ha'  towdyo'  th'  truth  o'  th'  little  chap  yo'  jeered 
at  an'  throw'd  his  words  back  to." 

Thus  it  became  among  her  companions  a  commonly 
accepted  belief  that  Joan  Lowrie  had  turned  "  Methody." 
They  could  find  no  other  solution  to  her  championship  of 
the  parson. 

"  Is  it  true  as  tha's  fined  th'  Methodys  ?  "  Thwaite's  wile 
asked  Joan,  somewhat  nervously. 

She  had  learned  to  be  fond  of  the  girl,  and  did  not  like 
the  idea  of  believing  in  her  defection. 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  it  is  na." 

The  woman  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"  I  thowt  it  wur  na,"  she  said.  "  I  towd  th'  Maxeys 
as  I  did  na  believe  it  when  they  browt  th'  tale  to  me. 
They're  powerful  fond  o'  tale-bearing',  that  Maxey  lot." 

Joan  stopped  in  her  play  with  the  child. 

"  They  dunnot  understand,"  she  said,  "  that's  aw.  I  ha' 
learned  to  think  different,  an'  believe  i'  things  as  I  did  na 


212  THAT  LASS  0'  LIWRIETS. 

use  to  believe  in.  Happen  that's  what  they  mean  Try 
talkin'  o'  th'  Methodys." 

People  learned  no  more  of  the  matter  than  this.  They 
felt  that  in  some  way  Joan  had  separated  herself  from 
their  ranks,  but  they  found  it  troublesome  to  work  their 
way  to  any  more  definite  conclusion. 

"  Hast  heard  about  that  lass  o'  Lowrie's  ?  "  they  said  to 
one  another  ;  "  hoo's  takken  a  new  turn  sin'  Lowrie  deed ; 
hoo  allus  wur  a  queer-loike,  high-handed  wench." 

After  Lowrie's  death,  Anice  Barholm  and  Joan  were 
oftener  togetlier  than  ever.  What  had  at  first  been  friend 
ship  had  gradually  become  affection. 

"  I  think,"  Anice  said  to  Grace,  "  that  Joan  must  go 
away  from  here  and  find  a  new  life." 

"  That  is  the  only  way,"  he  answered.  "  In  this  old  one 
there  has  been  nothing  but  misery  for  her,  and  bitterness 
and  pain." 

Fergus  Derrick  was  sitting  at  a  table  turning  over  a 
book  of  engravings.  He  looked  up  sharply. 

"  Where  can  you  find  a  new  life  for  her  ?"  he  asked. 
"  And  how  can  you  help  her  to  it?  One  dare  not  offer 
her  even  a  semblance  of  assistance." 

They  had  not  spoken  to  him,  but  he  had  heard,  as  he 
always  heard,  everything  connected  with  Joan  Lowrie. 
He  was  always  restless  arid  eager  where  she  was  concerned. 
All  intercourse  between  them  seemed  to  be  at  an  end. 
Without  appearing  to  make  an  effort  to  do  so,  she  kept  out 
of  his  path.  Try  as  he  might,  he  could  not  reach  her. 
At  last  it  had  come  to  this :  he  was  no  longer  dallying 
upon  the  brink  of  a  great  and  dangerous  passion, — it  had 
overwhelmed  him. 

"  One  cannot  even  approach  nor,"  he  said  agaii:. 

Anice  regarded  him  with  a  shade  of  pity  in  her  face. 


"TURNED  METHOD F."  213 

"  The  time  is  coming  when  it  will  not  be  so,''  she  said. 

The  night  before  Joan  Lowrie  had  spent  an  hour  with 
her.  She  had  come  in  on  her  way  from  her  work,  before 
going  to  Thwaite's,  and  had  knelt  down  upon  the  hearth 
rug  to  warm  herself.  There  had  been  no  light  in  the 
room  but  that  of  the  fire,  and  its  glow,  falling  upon  her 
face,  had  revealed  to  Anice  something  like  haggardness. 

"  Joan,"  she  said,  "  are  you  ill  ?  " 

Joan  stirred  a  little  uneasily,  but  did  not  look  at  her  as 
she  answered  : 

"  Xay,  I  am  na  ill ;  I  nivver  wur  ill  i'  my  loife." 

"  Then,"  said  Anice,  "  what — what  is  it  that  I  see  in 
your  face  ? " 

There  was  a  momentary  tremor  of  the  finely  moulded, 
obstinate  chin. 

"  I'm  tired  out,"  Joan  answered.  "  That's  all,"  and  her 
hand  fell  upon  her  lap. 

Anice  turned  to  the  fire. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked,  almost  in  a  whisper. 

Joan  looked  up  at  her, — not  defiant,  not  bitter,  not 
dogged, — simply  in  appeal  against  her  own  despair. 

"  Is  na  theer  a  woman's  place  fur  me  i'  th'  world  ?  Is 
it  allus  to  be  this  way  wi'  me  ?  Con  I  nivver  reach  no 
higher,  strive  as  I  will,  pray  as  I  will, — fur  I  have  prayed  ? 
Is  na  theer  a  woman's  place  fur  me  i'  th'  world  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Anice,  "  I  am  sure  there  is." 

a  I've  thowt  as  theer  mun  be  somewheer.  Sometimes 
I've  felt  sure  as  theer  mun  be,  an'  then  agen  I've  been 
beset  so  sore  that  I  ha'  almost  gi'en  it  up.  If  there  is  such 
a  place  fur  me  I  mun  find  it — I  mun  !  " 

"Ton  will  find  it,"  said  Anice.     "  Some  day,  surely." 

Anice  thought  of  all  this  again  when  she  glanced  at 
Derrick.  Derrick  was  more  than  usually  disturbed  to-day. 


214  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRI&8. 

He  had  for  some  time  been  working  his  way  to  an  impor 
tant  decision,  fraught  with  some  annoyance  and  anxiety 
to  himself.  There  was  to  be  a  meeting  of  the  owners  in 
a  few  weeks,  and  at  this  meeting  he  had  determined  to 
take  a  firm  stand. 

"  The  longer  I  remain  in  my  present  position,  the  more 
fully  I  am  convinced  of  the  danger  constantly  threatening 
us,"  lie  said  to  Anice.  "  I  am  convinced  that  the  present 
system  of  furnaces  is  the  cause  of  more  explosions  than 
are  generally  attributed  to  it.  The  mine  here  is  a  'fiery' 
one,  as  they  call  it,  and  yet  day  after  day  goes  by  and  no 
precautions  are  taken.  There  are  poor  fellows  working 
under  me  whose  existence  means  bread  to  helpless  women 
and  children.  I  hold  their  lives  in  trust,  and  if  I  arn  not 
allowed  to  place  one  frail  barrier  between  them  and  sud 
den  death,  I  will  lead  them  into  peril  no  longer, — 1  will 
resign  my  position.  At  least  I  can  do  that." 

The  men  under  him  worked  with  a  dull,  heavy  daring, 
born  of  long  use  and  a  knowledge  of  their  own  helpless 
ness  against  their  fate.  There  was  not  one  among  them 
who  did  not  know  that  in  going  down  the  shaft  to  his 
labor,  he  might  be  leaving  the  light  of  day  behind  him 
forever.  But  seeing  the  blue  sky  vanish  from  sight  thus 
during  six  days  of  fifty-two  weeks  in  the  year,  engendered 
a  kind  of  hard  indifference.  Explosions  had  occurred, 
and  might  occur  again  ;  dead  men  had  been  carried  up  to 
be  stretched  on  the  green  earth, — men  crushed  out  of  all 
semblance  to  humanity ;  some  of  themselves  bore  the 
marks  of  terrible  maiming ;  but  it  was  an  old  story,  and 
they  had  learned  to  face  the  same  hazard  recklessly. 

With  Fergus  Derrick,  however,  it  was  a  different  mat 
ter.  It  was  he  who  must  lead  these  men  into  new  fields 
of  danger 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

FATE. 

TBE  time  came,  before  many  days,  when  the  last  tie 
that  bound  Joan  to  her  present  life  was  broken.  The 
little  one,  who  from  the  first  had  clung  to  existence  with 
a  frail  hold,  at  last  loosened  its  weak  grasp.  It  had 
been  ill  for  several  days, — so  ill  that  Joan  had  remained 
at  home  to  nurse  it, — and  one  night,  sitting  with  it  upon 
her  knee  in  her  accustomed  place,  she  saw  a  change  upon 
the  small  face. 

It  had  been  moaning  continuously,  and  suddenly  the 
plaintive  sound  ceased.  Joan  bent  over  it.  She  had  been 
holding  the  tiny  hand  as  she  always  did,  and  at  this  mo 
ment  the  soft  fingers  closed  upon  one  of  her  own  quietly. 
She  was  quite  alone,  and  for  an  instant  there  was  a  deep 
siler/je.  After  her  first  glance  at  the  tiny  creature,  she 
broke  this  silence  herself. 

"  Little  lass,"  she  said  in  a  whisper,  "  what  ails  thee  ? 
Is  thy  pain  o'er  ?  " 

As  she  looked  again  at  the  baby  face  upturned  as  if  in 
silent  answer,  the  truth  broke  in  upon  her. 

Folding  her  arms  around  the  little  form,  she  laid  her 
head  upon  its  breast  and  wept  aloud, — wept  as  she  had 
never  wept  before.  Then  she  laid  the  child  upon  a  pillow 
and  covered  its  face.  Liz's  last  words  returned  to  her 
with  a  double  force.  It  had  not  lived  to  forget  or  blame 
her.  Where  was  Liz  to-night, — at  this  hour,  when  her 
child  was  so  safe  \ 


216  THAT  LASS  O1  LOWRI&S. 

The  next  morning,  on  her  way  downstairs  to  the  break 
fast-room.  An  ice  Barholrn  was  met  by  a  servant. 

"  The  young  woman  from  the  mines  would  like  to  see 
you,  Miss,"  said  the  girl. 

Anice  found  Joan  awaiting  her  below. 

"  I  ha'  come  to  tell  yo',1'  she  said,  "  that  th'  little  ui: 
deed  at  raidneet.  Theer  wur  no  one  I  could  ca'  in.  I  sat 
alone  wi'  it  i'  th'  room  aw  th'  neet,  an'  then  I  left  it  t« 
come  here." 

Anice  and  Thwaite's  wife  returned  home  with  her. 
What  little  there  was  to  be  done,  they  remained  to  do. 
But  this  was  scarcely  more  than  to  watch  with  her  until 
the  pretty  baby  face  was  hidden  away  from  human  sight. 

When  all  was  over,  Joan  became  restless.  The  presence 
of  the  child  had  saved  her  from  utter  desolation,  and  now 
that  it  was  gone,  the  emptiness  of  the  house  chilled  her. 
At  the  last,  when  her  companions  were  about  to  leave  her, 
she  broke  down. 

"  I  conna  bear  it,"  she  said.     u  I  will  go  wi'  yo'." 

Thwaite's  wife  had  proposed  before  that  she  should 
make  her  home  with  them  ;  and  now,  when  Mrs.  Thwaite 
returned  to  Riggan,  Joan  accompanied  her,  and  the  cot 
tage  was  locked  up. 

This  alteration  changed  greatly  the  routine  of  her  life. 
There  were  children  in  the  Thwaite  household — half  a 
dozen  of  them — who,  having  overcome  their  first  awe  ot 
her,  had  learned  before  the  baby  died  to  be  fond  of  Joan. 
Her  handsome  face  attracted  them  when  they  ceased  to 
fear  its  novelty ;  and  the  hard-worked  mother  said  to  her 
neighbors  : 

"  She's  gotten  a  way  wi'  childer,  somehow, — that  lass  oj 
Lowrie's.  Yo'd  wonder  if  yo'  could  see  her  wi'  'emu 
She's  mony  a  bit  o'  help  to  me." 


FATE.  217 

But  as  time  progressed,  Anice  Barholm  noted  the  con 
Btant  presence  of  that  worn  look  upon  her  face.  Instead 
of  diminishing,  it  grew  and  deepened.  Even  Derrick, 
who  met  her  so  rarely,  saw  it  when  he  passed  her  in  the 
street. 

"  She  is  not  ill,  is  she  ?  "  he  asked  Anice  once,  ab 
ruptly. 

Anice  shook  her  head. 

"  No,  she  is  not  ill." 

"  Then  she  has  some  trouble  that  nobody  knows  about," 
b?  said.  "What  a  splendid  creature  she  is!"  impetu 
ously — "  and  how  incomprehensible  !  " 

His  eyes  chanced  to  meet  Anice's,  and  a  dark  flush 
swept  over  his  face.  He  got  up  almost  immediately  after 
and  began  to  pace  the  room,  as  was  his  habit. 

"  Next  week  the  crisis  will  come  at  the  mines,"  he  said. 
"  I  wonder  how  it  will  end  for  me." 

"  You  are  still  determined  \  "  said  Anice. 

"Yes,  I  am  still  determined.  I  wish  it  were  over. 
Perhaps  there  will  be  a  Fate  in  it " — his  voice  lowering 
itself  as  he  added  this  last  sentence. 

"  A  Fate  ?  "  said  Anice. 

"  1  am  growing  superstitious  and  full  of  fancies,"  he 
said.  "  I  do  not  trust  to  myself,  as  I  once  did.  I  should 
like  Fate  to  bear  the  responsibility  of  my  leaving  Riggan 
or  remaining  in  it." 

"  And  if  you.  leave  it  ? "   asked  Anice. 

For  an  instant  he  paused  in  his  walk,  with  an  uncertain 
air.  But  he  shook  this  uncertainty  off  with  a  visible  effort, 
the  next  moment. 

"  If  I  leave  it,  I  do  not  think  I  shall  return,  and  Fate 
will  have  settled  a  long  unsettled  question  for  me." 

"Don't  leave  it  to  Fate,"  said   Anice  in  a  low  tone. 
10 


218  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRI&ti. 

"Settle  it  for  yourself.  It  does  not — it  is  not- -it 
looks " 

"  It  looks  cowardly,"  he  interrupted  her.  "  So  it  does, 
and  so  it  is.  God  knows  I  never  felt  myself  so  great  a 
coward  before ! " 

He  had  paused  again.  This  time  he  stood  before  her. 
The  girl's  grave,  delicate  face  turned  to  meet  his  glance, 
and  seeing  it,  a  thought  seemed  to  strike  him. 

"  Anice,"  he  said,  the  dark  flush  rising  afresh.  "  I 
promised  you  that  if  the  time  should  ever  come  when  I 
needed  help  that  it  was  possible  you  might  give,  I  should 
not  be  afraid  to  ask  you  for  it.  I  am  coming  to  you  for 
help.  Not  now — some  day  not  far  distant.  That  is  why 
I  remind  you  of  the  compact." 

"  I  did  not  need  reminding,"  she  said  to  him. 

"  I  might  have  known  that,"  he  answered, — "  I  think  I 
did  know  it.  Bat  let  us  make  the  compact  over  again." 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  and  he  took  it  eagerly. 


CHAPTER  XXXIY. 

THE    DECISION. 

THE  owners  of  the  Riggan  collieries  held  their  meeting. 
That  a  person  in  their  employ  should  differ  from  them 
boldly,  and  condemn  their  course  openly,  was  an  extraor 
dinary  event ;  that  a  young  man  in  the  outset  of  his  ca 
reer  should  dare  so  much  was  unprecedented.  It  would 
be  a  ruinous  thing,  they  said  among  themselves,  for  so 
young  a  man  to  lose  so  important  a  position  on  the  very 
threshold  of  his  professional  life,  and  they  were  convinced 
that  his  knowledge  of  this  would  restrain  him.  But  they 
were  astounded  to  find  that  it  did  not. 

He  brought  his  plans  with  him,  and  laid  them  before 
them.  They  were  plans  for  the  abolition  of  old  and  dan 
gerous  arrangements,  for  the  amelioration  of  the  condition 
of  the  men  who  labored  at  the  hourly  risk  of  their  lives, 
and  for  rendering  this  labor  easier.  Especially,  there  were 
plans  for  a  newer  system  of  ventilation — proposing  the 
substitution  of  fans  for  the  long-used  furnace.  One  or 
two  of  the  younger  men  leaned  toward  their  adoption. 
But  the  men  with  the  greatest  influence  were  older,  and 
less  prone  to  the  encouragement  of  novelty. 

"  It's  all  nonsense,"  said  one.  "  Furnaces  have  bneii 
used  ever  since  the  mines  were  opened,  and  as  to  the  rest 
— it  arises,  I  suppose,  from  the  complaints  of  the  men. 
They  always  will  complain — they  always  did." 

"  So  far  they  have  had  reason  for  complaint,"  remarked 
Derrick.  u  As  you  say,  there  have  been  furnaces  ever 


220  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRI&S. 

since  there  Lave  been  mines,  and  there  have  also  been  ex 
plosions  which  may  in  many  cases  be  attributed  to  them. 
There  was  an  explosion  at  Browton  a  month  ago  which 
was  to  some  extent  a  mystery,  but  there  were  old  miners 
who  understood  it  well  enough.  The  return  air,  loaded 
with  gas,  had  ignite^  at  the  furnace,  and  the  result  was 
that  forty  dead  and  wounded  men  were  carried  up  the 
shaft,  to  be  recognized,  when  they  were  recognizable,  by 
mothers,  and  wives,  and  children,  who  depended  upon 
them  for  their  scant  food." 

Derrick  argued  his  cause  well  and  with  spirit,  keeping 
a  tight  rein  upon  himself ;  but  when,  having  exhausted 
his  arguments,  he  found  that  he  had  not  advanced  his 
cause,  and  that  it  was  a  settled  matter  that  he  should  not, 
he  took  fire. 

"  Then,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  I  have  but  one  resource. 
I  will  hold  no  human  life  lightly  in  my  hands.  I  have 
the  honor  to  tender  you  my  resignation." 

There  was  a  dead  silence  for  a  moment  or  so.  They 
had  certainly  not  expected  such  a  result  as  this.  A  well- 
disposed  young  man,  who  sat  near  to  Derrick,  spoke  to 
him  in  a  rapid  undertone. 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  he  said,  "  it  will  be  the  ruin  of  you. 
For  my  part,  I  admire  your  enthusiasm,  but  do  not  be 
rash." 

"A  man  with  a  will  and  a  pair  of  clean  hands  is  not 
easily  ruined,"  returned  Derrick  a  trifle  hotly.  "As  to 
being  rash  or  enthusiastic,  I  am  neither  the  one  nor  the 
other.  It  is  not  enthusiasm  which  moves  me,  it  is  a 
familiarity  with  stern  realities." 

When  he  left  the  room  his  fate  had  been  decided.  At 
the  end  of  the  week  he  would  have  no  further  occupation 
in  Riggan.  He  had  only  two  more  days'  work  before  him 


THE  DECISION.  221 

and  be  had  gained  the  unenviable  reputation  of  being 
f  tire-and-tow  young  fellow,  who  was  flighty  enough  to 
make  a  martyr  of  himself. 

Under  the  first  street-lamp  he  met  Grace,  who  was  evi 
dently  making  his  way  home. 

"  I  will  go  with  you,"  he  said,  taking  his  arm. 

Once,  within  the  walls  of  the  pleasant  little  room,  he 
found  it  easy  to  unbosom  himself.  He  described  his  inter 
view  with  his  employers,  and  its  termination. 

"  A  few  months  ago,  I  flattered  myself  that  my  prospects 
were  improving,"  he  said ;  "  but  now  it  seems  that  1 
must  begin  again,  which  is  not  an  easy  matter,  by  the 
way." 

By  the  time  he  ended  be  found  his  temporary  excite 
ment  abating  somewhat,  but  still  his  mood  was  by  no 
means  undisturbed. 

It  was  after  they  had  finished  tea  and  the  arm-chairs  ha» 
been  drawn  to  the  fire  that  Grace  himself  made  a  re  vela 
tion, 

"  When  you  met  me  to-night,  I  was  returning  from  a 
visit  I  had  paid  to  Joan  Lo \vrie." 

"At  ThwaiteV?"  said  Derrick. 

"At  Thwaite's.  She — the  fact  is  I  went  on  business — 
she  has  determined  ix>  change  her  plan  of  life." 

"  In  what  manner  I  " 

"She  is  to  work  no  more  at  the  mines.  I  am  happy  to 
say  that  I  have  been  able  to  find  her  other  employment." 

There  was  an  interval  of  silence,  at  length  broken  by 
Derrick. 

"Grace,"  he  said,  "can  you  tell  me  why  she  decided 
upon  such  a  course?" 

Grace  looked  at  him  with  questioning  surprise. 

"  I  can  tell  you  what  she  said  to  me  on  the  subject,"  he 


222  THAT  LASS  0>  LOWRIE' S. 

replied.  "  She  said  it  was  no  woman's  work,  and  she  was 
tired  of  it." 

"  She  is  not  the  woman  to  do  anything  without  a 
motive,"  mused  Derrick. 

"  No,"  returned  the  curate. 

A  moment  later,  as  if  by  one  impulse,  their  eyes  met. 
Grace  started  as  if  he  had  been  stung.  Derrick  simply 
flushed. 

"  What  is  it  3  "  he  asked. 

"I — I  do  not  think  I  understand,"  Grace  faltered. 
"  Surely  I  am  blundering." 

"  No,"  said  Derrick,  gloomily.  "  You  cannot  blunder 
since  you  know  the  truth.  You  did  not  fancy  that  my 
feeling  was  so  trivial  that  I  could  have  conquered  it  so 
soon  \  Joan  Lowrie " 

"Joan  Lowrie! " 

Grace's  voice  had  broken  in  upon  him  with  a  startled 
sound. 

The  two  men  regarded  each  other  in  bewilderment. 
Then  again  Derrick  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  Grace,"  he  said,  "  you  have  misunderstood  me." 

Grace  answered  him  with  a  visible  tremor. 

"  If,"  he  said,  "  it  was  to  your  love  for  Joan  Lowrie  yon 
referred  when  you  spoke  to  me  of  your  trouble  some 
months  ago,  I  have  misunderstood  you.  If  the  obstacles 
you  meant  were  the  obstacles  you  would  find  in  the  path 
of  such  a  love,  I  have  misunderstood  you.  If  you  did  not 
mean  that  your  heart  had  been  stirred  by  a  feeling  your 
generous  friendship  caused  you  to  regard  as  unjust  to  me, 
I  have  misunderstood  you  miserably." 

"  My  dear  fellow !  "  Derrick  exclaimed,  with  some  emo 
tion.  "  My  dear  fellow,  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you 
imagined  I  referred  to  Miss  Barholm  ? " 


THE  DECISION.  223 

"  I  was  sure  of  it,"  was  Grace's  agitated  reply.  "  As  I 
said  before,  T  have  misunderstood  you  miserably." 

"  And  yet  you  had  no  word  of  blame  for  me  ?  " 

"  I  had  no  right  to  blame  you.  I  had  not  lost  what  I 
believed  you  had  won.  It  had  never  been  mine.  It  was 
a  mistake,"  he  added,  endeavoring  to  steady  himself.  "  But 
doirt  mind  me,  Derrick.  Let  us  try  to  set  it  right ;  only  I 
am  afraid  you  will  have  to  begin  again." 

Derrick  drew  a  heavy  breath.  He  took  up  a  paper-knife 
from  the  table,  and  began  to  bend  it  in  his  hands. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  we  shall  have  to  begin  again.  And  it 
is  told  in  a  few  words,"  he  said,  with  a  deliberateness  pain 
ful  in  its  suggestion  of  an  intense  effort  at  self-control. 
"  Grace,  what  would  you  think  of  a  man  who  found  himself 
setting  reason  at  defiance,  and  in  spite  of  all  obstacles  con 
fronting  the -possibility  of  loving  and  marrying — if  she 
can  be  won — such  a  woman  as  Joan  Lowrie  ? " 

"You  are  putting  me  in  a  difficult  position,"  Paul 
answered.  "  If  he  would  dare  so  much,  he  would  be  the 
man  to  dare  to  decide  for  himself." 

Derrick  tossed  the  paper-knife  aside. 

"  And  you  know  that  I  am  the  person  in  question.  1 
have  so  defied  the  world,  in  spite  of  myself  at  first,  I 
must  confess.  /  have  confronted  the  possibility  of  loving 
Joan  Lowrie  until  I  do  love  her.  So  there  the  case 
stands." 

Gradually  there  dawned  upon  the  curate's  mind  certain 
remembrances  connected  with  Joan.  Now  and  then  she 
had  puzzled  arid  startled  him,  but  here,  possibly,  might  be 
a  solution  of  the  mystery. 

"  And  Joan  Lowrie  herself  ?  "  he  asked,  questioningly 

"  Joan  Lowrie  herself,"  said  Derrick,  "  is  no  nearer  to 
me  to-day  than  she  was  a  year  ago." 


224  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRIW3. 

"Are  you," — hesitatingly, — "are  you  quite  sare  of 
that?" 

The  words  had  escaped  his  lips  in  spite  of  himself. 

Derrick  started  and  turned  toward  him  with  a  sudden 
movement. 

"  Grace !  "  he  said. 

"  i  asked  if  you  were  sure  of  chat,"  answered  Grace, 
coloring.  "  1  am  not." 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

IN  THE  PIT. 

TITE  nex^  morning  Derrick  went  down  to  the  mine  as 
nsual.  Tlie^e  were  several  things  he  wished  to  do  in 
these  last  two  days.  He  had  heard  that  the  managers  had 
entered  into  negotiations  with  a  new  engineer,  and  he 
wished  the  man  to  find  no  half-done  work.  The  day  was 
bright  and  frosty,  and  the  sharp,  bracing  air  seemed  to 
clear  his  brain.  He  felt  more  hopeful,  and  less  inclined 
to  view  matters  darkly. 

He  remembered  afterward  that,  as  he  stepped  into  the 
cage,  he  turned  to  look  at  the  unpicturesque  little  town, 
brightened  by  the  winter's  sun ;  and  that,  as  he  went 
down,  he  glanced  up  at  the  sky  and  marked  how  intense 
appeared  the  bit  of  blue,  which  was  framed  in  by  the 
mouth  of  the  shaft. 

Even  in  the  few  hours  that  had  elapsed  since  the  meeting 
the  rumor  of  what  he  had  said  and  done  had  been  bruited 
about.  Some  collier  had  heard  it  and  had  told  it  to  his 
comrades,  and  so  it  had  gone  from  one  to  the  other.  It  had 
been  talked  over  at  the  evening  and  morning  meal  in 
divers  cottages,  and  many  an  anxious  woman  had  warmed 
into  praise  of  the  man  who  had  "  had  a  thowt  for  tlr  men." 

In  the  first  gallery  he  entered  he  found  a  deputation  of 
men  awaiting  him, — a  group  of  burly  miners  with  picka 
anl  shovels  over  their  shoulders, — and  the  head  of  thia 
deputation,  a  spokesman  burlier  and  generally  gruffei 
than  the  r^st,  stopped  him. 
10* 


226  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRIETS. 

"  Mester,"  he  said,  "  we  chaps  'ud  loike  to  ha'  a  word 
Wi'  yo'." 

"  All  right,"  was  Derrick's  reply,  "  I  am  ready  to  listen." 

The  rest  crowded  nearer  as  if  anxious  to  participate  as 
much  as  possible,  and  give  their  spokesman  the  support  of 
their  presence. 

"  It  is  n a  mich  as  we  ha'  getten  to  say,"  said  the  man, 
"  but  we're  fain  to  say  it.  Are  na  we,  mates  2  " 

"  Ay,  we  are,  lad,"  in  chorus. 

"  It's  about  summat  as  we'n  heerd.  Theer  wur  a  chap 
as  towd  some  on  us  last  neet,  as  yo'd  getten  th'  sack  fro' 
th'  managers — or  leastways  as  yo'd  turned  th'  tables  on 
'em  an'  gi'en  them  th'  sack  yo'rsen.  An'  we'n  heerd  as  it 
begun  wi'  yo're  standin'  up  fur  us  chaps — axin  fur  things 
as  wur  wanted  i'  th'  pit  to  save  us  fro'  rtmnin'  more  risk 
than  we  need.  An'  we  heerd  as  yo'  spoke  up  bold,  an' 
argied  fur  us  an'  stood  to  what  yo'  thowt  war  th'  reet 
thing,  an'  we  set  our  moinds  on  tellin'  yo'  as  we'd  heerd  it 
an'  talked  it  over,  an'  we'd  loike  to  say  a  word  o'  thanks  i' 
common  fur  th'  pluck  yo'  showed.  Is  na  that  it,  mates?" 

"  Ay,  that  it  is,  lad !  "  responded  the  chorus. 

Suddenly  one  of  the  group  stepped  out  and  threw  down 
his  pick. 

"  An'  I'm  dom'd,  mates,"  he  said,  "  if  here  is  na  a  chap 
as  ud  loike  to  shake  hands  wi'  him." 

It  was  the  signal  for  the  rest  to  follow  his  example. 
They  crowded  about  their  champion,  thrusting  grimy 
paws  into  his  hand,  grasping  it  almost  enthusiastically. 

"  Good  luck  to  yo',  lad ! "  said  one.  "  We'n  noan 
smooth  soart  o'  chaps,  but  we'n  stand  by  what's  fair  an' 
plucky.  We  shall  ha'  a  good  word  fur  thee  when  tha 
hast  made  thy  nittin'." 

"  I'm  glad  of  that  lads,"  responded  Derrick,  heartily,  by 


IN  THE  PIT  227 

no  means  unmoved  by  the  rough-and-ready  spirit  of  the 
scene.     "  I  only  wish  I  had  had  better  luck,  that's  all." 

A  few  hours  later  the  whole  of  the  little  town  was 
shaken  to  its  very  foundations,  by  something  like  an 
earthquake,  accompanied  by  an  ominous,  booming  sound 
which  brought  people  flocking  out  of  their  houses,  with 
white  faces.  Some  of  them  had  heard  it  before — all 
knew  what  it  meant.  From  the  colliers'  cottages  poured 
forth  women,  shrieking  and  wailing, — women  who  bore 
children  in  their  arms  and  had  older  ones  dragging  at 
their  skirts,  and  who  made  their  desperate  way  to  the  pit 
with  one  accord.  From  houses  and  workshops  there 
rushed  men,  who,  coming  out  in  twos  and  threes  joined 
each  other,  and,  forming  a  breathless  crowd,  ran  through 
the  streets  scarcely  daring  to  speak  a  word — and  all  ran 
toward  the  pit. 

There  were  scores  at  its  mouth  in  five  minutes ;  in  ten 
minutes  there  were  hundreds,  and  above  all  the  clamor 
rose  the  cry  of  women  : 

"  My  Mester's  down !  " 

"An5  mine!" 

"An' mine!" 

u  Four  lads  o'  mine  is  down  !  " 

"  Three  o'  mine  !  " 

"  My  little  un's  theer — th'  youngest — nobbut  ten  year 
owd — nobbut  ten  year  owd,  poor  little  chap  !  an'  ony  been 
at  work  a  week  !  " 

"Ay,  wenches,  God  ha'  mercy  on  us  aw' — God  ha' 
mercy  !  "  And  then  more  shrieks  and  wails  in  which  tho 
terror-stricken  children  joined. 

It  was  a  fearful  sight.  How  many  lay  dead  and  dy 
ing  in  the  noisome  darkness  below,  God  only  knew !  How 


228  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRIWS. 

many  lay  mangled  and  crushed,  waiting  for  their  death, 
Heaven  only  could  tell ! 

In  five  minutes  after  the  explosion  occurred,  a  slight 
figure  in  clerical  garb  made  its  way  through  the  crowd  with 
an  air  of  excited  determination. 

"  Th'  parson's  feart,"  was  the  general  comment. 

"My  men,"  he  said,  raising  his  voice  so  that  all  could 
hear,  "can  any  of  you  tell  me  who  last  saw  Fergus 
Derrick?" 

There  was  a  brief  pause,  and  then  came  a  reply  from  a 
collier  who  stood  near. 

"  I  coom  up  out  o'  th'  pit  an  hour  ago,"  he  said,  "  I  wur 
th'  last  as  coom  up,  an'  it  wur  on'y  chance  as  browt  me. 
Derrick  wur  wi'  his  men  i'  th'  new  part  o'  th'  mine.  I 
seed  him  as  I  passed  through." 

Grace's  face  became  a  shade  or  so  paler,  but  he  made  no 
more  inquiries. 

His  friend  either  lay  dead  below,  or  was  waiting  for  his 
doom  at  that  very  moment.  He  stepped  a  little  farther 
forward. 

"  Unfortunately  for  myself,  at  present/'  he  said,  "  I 
have  no  practical  knowledge  of  the  nature  of  these  acci 
dents.  Will  some  of  you  tell  me  how  long  it  will  be  before 
we  can  make  our  first  effort  to  rescue  the  men  who  are 
below?" 

Did  he  mean  to  volunteer — this  young  wThipper-snapper 
of  a  parson  ?  And  if  he  did,  could  he  know  what  he  was 
doing? 

"  I  ask  you,"  he  said,  "  because  I  wish  to  offer  myself 
as  a  volunteer  at  once ;  I  think  I  am  stronger  than  yon 
imagine,  and  at  least  my  heart  will  be  in  the  work.  I 
have  a  friend  below, — myself,"  his  voice  altering  its  tone 
and  losing  its  firmness, — "  a  friend  who  is  worthy  the  sacri- 


IN  THE  PIT.  229 

fice  of  ten  such  _ives  as  mine  if  such  a  sacrifice  could  save 
him." 

One  or  two  of  the  older  and  more  experienced  spoke  up. 
Under  an  hour  it  would  be  impossible  to  make  the  attempt 
— it  might  even  be  a  longer  time,  but  in  an  hour  they 
might,  at  least,  make  their  first  effort. 

If  such  was  the  case,  the  parson  said,  the  intervening 
period  must  be  turned  to  the  best  account.  In  that  time 
much  could  be  thought  of  and  done  which  would  assist 
themselves  and  benefit  the  sufferers.  He  called  upon  the 
strongest  and  most  experienced,  and  almost  without  their 
recognizing  the  prominence  of  his  position,  led  them  on  in 
the  work.  He  even  rallied  the  weeping  women  and  gave 
them  something  to  do.  One  was  sent  for  this  necessary 
article  and  another  for  that.  A  couple  of  boys  were  dis 
patched  to  the  next  village  for  extra  medical  assistance, 
so  that  there  need  be  no  lack  of  attention  when  it  was 
required.  He  took  off  his  broadcloth  and  worked  with 
the  rest  of  them  until  all  the  necessary  preparations  were 
made  and  it  was  considered  possible  to  descend  into  the 
mine. 

When  all  was  ready,  he  went  to  the  mouth  of  the  shaft 
and  took  his  place  quietly. 

It  was  a  hazardous  task  they  had  before  them.  Death 
would  stare  them  in  the  face  all  through  its  performance. 
There  was  choking  after-damp  below,  noxious  vapors, 
to  breathe  which  was  to  die ;  there  was  the  chance  of 
crushing  masses  falling  from  the  shaken  galleries — and 
yet  these  men  left  their  companions  one  by  one  and  ranged 
themselves,  without  saying  a  word,  at  the  curate's  side. 

"  My  friends,"  said  Grace,  baring  his  head,  and  rais 
ing  a  feminine  hand.  "  My  friends,  we  will  &ay  a  short 
prayor." 


230  THAT  LASS  O>  LOWRIET8. 

It  was  only  a  few  words.     Then  the  curate  spoke  again 

"  Ready  !  "  he  said. 

But  just  at  that  moment  there  stepped  out  from  the 
anguished  crowd  a  girl,  whose  face  was  set  and  deathly, 
though  there  was  no  touch  of  fear  upon  it. 

"  I  ax  yo',"  she  said,  "  to  let  me  go  wi'  yo'  and  do 
what  I  con.  Lasses,  some  on  yo'  speak  a  word  fur  Joan 
Lowrie  ! " 

There  was  a  breathless  start.  The  women  even  stopped 
their  outcry  to  look  at  her  as  she  stood  apart  from  them, 
— a  desperate  appeal  in  the  very  quiet  of  her  gesture  as 
she  turned  to  look  about  her  for  some  one  to  speak." 

"  Lasses,"  she  said  again.  "  Some  on  yo'  speak  a  word 
fur  Joan  Lowrie  !  " 

There  rose  a  murmur  among  them  then,  and  the  next 
instant  this  murmur  was  a  cry. 

"  Ay,"  they  answered,  u  we  con  aw  speak  f  iir  yo'.  Let 
her  go,  lads  !  She's  worth  two  o'  th'  best  on  yo'.  Nowt 
fears  her.  Ay,  she  mun  go,  if  she  will,  mun  Joan  Lowrie  I 
Go,  Joan,  lass,  and  we'n  not  forget  thee  ! " 

But  the  men  demurred.  The  finer  instinct  of  some  of 
them  shrank  from  giving  a  woman  a  place  in  such  a  peril 
ous  undertaking — the  coarser  element  in  others  rebelled 
against  it. 

"We'n  ha'  no  wenches,"  these  said,  surlily. 

Grace  stepped  forward.  He  went  to  Joan  Lowrie  and 
touched  her  gently  on  the  shoulder. 

"  We  cannot  think  of  it,"  he  said.  "  It  is  very  brave 
and  generous,  and — God  bless  you  ! — but  it  cannot  be.  I 
could  not  think  of  allowing  it  myself,  if  the  rest  would." 

"  Parson,"  said  Joan  coolly,  but  not  roughly,  "tha'd  ha' 
hard  work  to  help  thysen,  if  so  be  as  th'  lads  wui 
willin' '' 


IN  TEE  PIT.  231 

u  But,"  he  pretested,  "  it  may  be  death.  1  could  not 
bear  the  thought  of  it.  You  are  a  woman.  We  cannot 
let  you  risk  your  life." 

She  turned  to  the  volunteers. 

"Lads,"  she  cried,  passionately,  "Yo'  munnot  turn  me 
back.  I — sin  I  mun  tell  yo'-  "  and  she  faced  them  like 
a  queen, — "  theer's  a  mon  down  theer  as  I'd  gi'  my  heart's 
blood  to  save." 

They  did  not  know  whom  she  meant,  but  they  demurred 
no  longer. 

"  Tak'  thy  place,  wench,"  said  the  oldest  of  them.  "  If 
tha  mun,  tha  mun." 

She  took  her  seat  in  the  cage  by  Grace,  and  when  she 
took  it  she  half  turned  her  face  away.  But  when  those 
above  began  to  lower  them,  and  they  found  themselves 
swinging  downward  into  what  might  be  to  them  a  pit  of 
death,  she  spoke  to  him. 

"  Theer's  a  prayer  I'd  loike  yo'  to  pray,"  she  said. 
"  Pray  that  if  we  mun  dee,  we  may  na  dee  until  we  ha' 
done  our  work." 

It  was  a  dreadful  work  indeed  that  the  rescuers  had  to 
do  in  those  black  galleries.  And  Joan  was  the  bravest, 
quickest,  most  persistent  of  all.  Paul  Grace,  following  in 
her  wake,  found  himself  obeying  her  slightest  word  or  gest 
ure.  He  worked  constantly  at  her  side,  for  he,  at  least, 
had  guessed  the  truth.  He  knew  that  they  were  both  en 
gaged  in  the  same  quest.  When  at  last  they  had  worked 
their  way — lifting,  helping,  comforting — to  the  end  of  the 
passage  where  the  collier  had  said  he  last  saw  the  master, 
then,  for  one  moment,  she  paused,  and  her  companion; 
with  a  tin  ill  of  pity,  touched  her  to  attr.ict  her  atten 
tion. 

"  Let  me  go  first,"  he  said. 


232  THAT  LASS  0'  LO  WRIST 8. 

"  Nay,"  she  answered,  "  we'n  go  together." 

The  gallery  was  a  long  and  low  one,  and  had  been  ter 
ribly  shaken.  In  some  places  the  props  had  been  torn 
away,  in  others  they  were  borne  down  by  the  loosened 
blocks  of  coal.  The  dim  light  of  the  "  Davy "  Joan 
held  up  showed  such  a  wreck  that  Grace  spoke  to  hor 
again. 

"  You  must  let  me  go  first,"  he  said,  with  gentle  firmness. 
"  If  one  of  these  blocks  should  fall " 

Joan  interrupted  him, — 

"  If  one  on  'em  should  fall  I'm  th'  one  as  it  had  better 
fall  on.  There  is  na  mony  foak  as  ud  miss  Joan  Lowrie. 
Yo'  ha'  work  o'  yore  own  to  do." 

She  stepped  into  the  gallery  before  he  could  protest, 
and  he  could  only  follow  her.  She  went  before,  holding 
the  Davy  high,  so  that  its  light  might  be  thrown  as  far 
forward  as  possible.  Now  and  then  she  was  forced  to 
stoop  to  make  her  way  around  a  bending  prop  ;  sometimes 
there  was  a  fallen  mass  to  be  surmounted,  but  she  was  at 
the  front  still  when  they  reached  the  other  end  without 
finding  the  object  of  their  search. 

;i  It — he  is  na  there,"  she  said.  "  Let  us  try  th'  next  pas 
sage,"  and  she  turned  into  it. 

It  was  she  who  first  came  upon  what  they  were  looking 
for  ;  but  they  did  not  find  it  in  the  next  passage,  or  the 
next,  or  even  the  next.  It  was  farther  away  from  the  scene 
of  the  explosion  than  they  had  dared  to  hope.  As  they 
entered  a  narrow  side  gallery.  Grace  heard  her  utter  a 
lo'.v  sound,  and  the  next  minute  she  was  down  upon  Lor 
knees. 

"  Theer's  a  mon  here,"  she  said.  "  It's  him  as  we're 
look  in'  far." 

She  held  the  dim  little  lantern  close  to  the  face, — a  stil) 


IN  THE  PIT.  233 

face  with  closed  eyes,  and  blood  upon  it.  Grace  knelt 
down  too,  his  heart  aching  with  dread. 

"  Is  he "  he  began,  but  could  not  finish. 

Joan  Lowrie  laid  her  hand  upon  the  apparently  motion 
less  breast  and  waited  almost  a  minute,  and  then  she 
lifted  her  own  face,  white  as  the  wounded  man's — white 
and  solemn,  and  wet  with  a  sudden  rain  of  tears. 

"  He  is  na  dead,"  she  said.     "  We  ha'  saved  him." 

She  sat  down  upon  the  floor  of  the  gallery  and  lifting 
his  head  laid  it  upon  her  bosom,  holding  it  close  as  a 
mother  might  hold  the  head  of  her  child. 

"  Mester,"  she  said,  "  gi'  me  th'  brandy  flask,  and  tak' 
thou  thy  Davy  an'  go  fur  some  o'  th'  men  to  help  us  get 
him  to  th'  leet  o'  day.  I'm  gone  weak  at  last.  I  conna 
do  no  more.  I'll  go  wi'  him  to  th'  top." 

When  the  cage  ascended  to  the  mouth  again  with  its 
last  load  of  sufferers,  Joan  Lowrie  came  with  it,  blinded 
and  dazzled  by  the  golden  winters  sunlight  as  it  fell 
upon  her  haggard  face.  She  was  holding  the  head  of 
what  seemed  to  be  a  dead  man  upon  her  knee.  A  great 
shout  of  welcome  rose  up  from  the  bystanders. 

She  helped  them  to  lay  her  charge  upon  a  pile  of  coats 
and  blankets  prepared  for  him,  and  then  she  turned  to  the 
doctor  who  had  hurried  to  the  spot  to  see  what  could  be 
done. 

"  He  is  na  dead,"  she  said.  "  Lay  yore  hond  on  his 
heart.  It  beats  yet,  Mester, — on'y  a  little,  but  it  beats." 

"  No,"  said  the  doctor,  u  he  is  not  dead  —yet,"  with  u 
breath's  pause  between  the  two  last  words.  "  If  some  of 
you  -will  help  me  to  put  him  on  a  stretcher,  he  may  be 
carried  home,  and  I  will  go  with  him.  There  is  just  a 
chance  for  him,  poor  fellow,  and  he  must  have  immediate 
attention.  Where  does  he  live  2  " 


THAT  LAJSS  V  LO  WRIST 8. 

"  He  must  go  with  me,"  said  Grace.  "  He  is  my 
friend." 

So  they  took  him  up,  and  Joan  stood  a  little  apart  and 
watched  them  carry  him  away, — watched  the  bearers 
until  they  were  out  of  sight,  and  then  turned  again  and 
Coined  the  women  in  their  work  among  the  sufferers. 


CHAPTER  XXXYI. 

ALIVE    YET. 

IN  the  bedroom  above  the  small  parlor  a  fire  was  burn 
ing  at  midnight,  and  by  this  fire  Grace  was  watching. 
The  lamp  was  turned  low  and  the  room  was  very  quiet  ; 
a  dropping  cinder  made  quite  a  startling  sound.  When  a 
moan  or  a  movement  of  the  patient  broke  the  stillness — 
which  was  only  at  rare  intervals — the  curate  rose  and 
went  to  the  bedside.  But  it  was  only  to  look  at  the  suf 
ferer  lying  upon  it,  bandaged  and  unconscious.  There 
was  very  little  he  could  do.  He  could  follow  the  instruc 
tions  given  by  the  medical  man  before  he  went  away, 
but  these  had  been  few  and  hurried,  and  he  could  only 
watch  with  grief  in  his  heart.  There  was  but  a  chance 
that  his  friend's  life  might  be  saved.  Close  attention 
and  unremitting  care  might  rescue  him,  and  to  the  best  of 
his  ability  the  curate  meant  to  give  him  both.  But  he 
could  not  help  feeling  a  deep  anxiety.  His  faith  in  his 
own  skill  was  not  very  great,  and  there  were  no  professional 
nurses  in  Riggan. 

"  It,  is  the  care  women  give  that  he  needs,"  he  said  once, 
standing  near  the  pillow  and  speaking  to  himself.  "  Men 
cannot  do  these  things  well.  A  ir  other  or  a  sister  might 
gave  him." 

He  went  to  the  window  and  drew  back  the  curtain  to 
look  out  upon  the  night.  As  he  did  so,  he  saw  the  figure 
of  a  woman  nearing  the  house.  As  she  approached,  she 
began  to  walk  more  slowly,  and  when  she  reached  the 


236  THAT  LASS  O  LOWRIE'S. 

gate  she  hesitated,  stopped  and  looked  up.  In  a  moment 
it  became  evident  that  she  saw  him,  and  was  conscious 
that  he  saw  her.  The  dim  light  in  the  chamber  threw  his 
form  into  strong  relief.  She  raised  her  hand  and  made  a 
gesture.  He  turned  away  from  the  window,  left  the  room 
quietly,  and  went  down-stairs.  She  had  not  moved,  but 
stood  at  the  gate  awaiting  him.  She  spoke  to  him  in  a 
low  tone,  and  he  distinguished  in  its  sound  a  degree  of 
physical  exhaustion. 

"  Yo'  saw  me,"  she  said.  "  I  thowt  yo'  did,  though  I 
did  na  think  o'  yo'  bein'  at  th'  winder  when  I  stopped — 
to— to  see  th'  leet." 

"  I  am  glad  I  saw  you,"  said  Grace.  "  You  have  been 
at  work  among  the  men  who  were  hurt  ?  " 

"  Ay,"  pulling  at  a  bush  of  evergreen  nervously,  and 
scattering  the  leaves  as  she  spoke.  "  Theer's  scarce  a 
house  o'  th'  common  soart  i'  Riggan  as  has  na  trouble  in  it." 

"  God  help  them  all !  "  exclaimed  Grace,  fervently. 

"  Have  you  seen  Miss  Barholm  ?  "  he  asked  next. 

"  She  wur  on  th'  ground  i'  ten  minnits  after  th'  explo 
sion.  She  wur  in  th'  village  when  it  happent,  an'  she 
drove  to  th'  pit.  She's  been  workin'  as  hard  as  ony  woman 
i'  Riggan.  She  saw  us  go  down  th'  mine,  but  she  did  not 
see  us  come  up.  She  wur  away  then  wi'  a  woman  as  had 
a  lad  to  be  carried  home  dead.  She  would  ha'  come  to 
Mm,  but  she  knowed  yo'  were  wi'  him,  an'  theer  wur  them 
as  needed  her.  When  th'  cages  coom  up  theer  wur 
women  as  screamed  an'  held  to  her,  an'  thro  wed  theirsens 
on  their  knees  an'  hid  their  faces  i'  her  dress,  an'  i'  her 
bonds,  as  if  they  thowt  she  could  keep  th'  truth  fro'  'em." 

Grace  trembled  in  his  excitement. 

"  God  bless  her  !  God  bless  her  1 "  he  said,  again  and 
again. 


ALIVE  YET.  237 

"  Where  is  she  now  ?  "  he  asked  at  length, 

"  Theer  wur  a  little  chap  as  come  up  i'  the  last  cageful 
— he  wur  hurt  bad,  an'  he  wur  sich  a  little  chap  as  it 
went  hard  wi'  him.  When  thf  doctor  touched  him  he 
screamed  an'  begged  to  be  let  alone,  an'  she  heerd  an' 
went  to  him,  an'  knelt  down  an'  quieted  him  a  bit.  Th' 
poor  little  lad  would  na  let  go  o'  her  dress ;  he  held  to  it  f  nr 
dear  life,  an'  sobbed  an'  shivered  and  begged  her  to  go 
wi'  him  an'  howd  his  head  on  her  lap  while  th'  doctor  did 
what  rnun  be  done.  An'  so  she  went,  an'  she's  wi'  lmn 
now.  He  will  na  live  till  day-leet,  an'  he  keeps  crying 
out  for  th'  lady  to  stay  wi'  him." 

There  was  another  silence,  and  then  Joan  spoke  : 

"  Canna  yo'  guess  what  I  coom  to  say  ? " 

He  thought  he  could,  and  perhaps  his  glance  told  her  so. 

"  If  I  wur  a  lady,"  she  said,  her  lips,  her  hands  tremb 
ling,  "  I  could  na  ax  yo'  what  I've  made  up  my  moiud  to  ; 
but  I'm  noan  a  lady,  an'  it  does  na  matter.  If  yo'  need 
some  one  to  help  yo'  wi'  him,  will  yo'  let  me  ha'  th'  place  'I 
I  dunnot  ax  nowt  else  but — -"but  to  be  let  do  th'  hard 
work." 

She  ended  with  a  sob.  Suddenly  she  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands,  weeping  wildly. 

"  Don't  do  that,"  he  said,  gently.  "  Come  with  me.  It 
is  you  he  needs." 

He  led  the  way  into  the  house  and  up  the  stairs,  Joan 
following  him.  When  they  entered  the  room  they  went 
to  the  bedside. 

The  injured  man  lay  motionless. 

"  Is  theer  loif e  i'  him  yet  \  "  asked  Joan.  "  He  looks 
as  if  theer  might  na  be." 

"  There  is  life  in  him,"  Grace  answered  ;  "  and  he  had 
been  a  strong  man,  so  I  think  we  may  feel  some  hope.5* 


CHAPTEK 

WATCHING   AND   WAITING. 

THE  next  morning  the  pony-carriage  stopped  before  the 
dnor  of  the  curate's  lodgings.  When  Grace  went  down 
stairs  to  the  parlor,  Anice  Barholm  turned  from  the  win 
dow  to  greet  him.  The  appearance  of  physical  exhaus 
tion  he  had  observed  the  night  before  in  Joan  Lowrie,  ho 
saw  again  in  her,  but  he  had  never  before  seen  the  face 
which  Anice  turned  toward  him. 

"  I  was  on  the  ground  yesterday,  and  saw  you  go  down 
into  the  mine,"  she  said.  "  I  had  never  thought  of  such 
courage  before." 

That  was  all,  but  in  a  second  he  comprehended  that 
this  morning  they  stood  nearer  together  than  they  had 
ever  stood  before. 

"  How  is  the  child  you  were  with  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  He  died  an  hour  ago." 

When  they  went  upstairs,  Joan  was  standing  by  the 
sick  man. 

"  He's  worse  than  he  wur  last  neet,"  she  said.  "  An' 
he'll  be  worse  still.  I  ha'  nursed  hurts  like  these  afore. 
It'll  be  mony  a  day  afore  he'll  be  better — if  th'  toime 
ivver  comes." 

The  rector  and  Mrs.  Barholm,  hearing  of  the  accident, 
and  leaving  Browton  hurriedly  to  return  home,  were  met 
by  half  a  dozen  different  versions  on  their  way  to  Riggan, 
and  each  one  was  so  enthusiastically  related  that  Mr.  Bar 


WATCHING  AND   WAITING.  239 

holm's  rather  dampened  interest  in  his  daughter's  protege 
was  fanned  as-ain  into  a  brisk  flame. 

£5 

"There  must  be  something  in  the  girl,  after  all,"  he 
said,  "  if  one  could  only  get  at  it.  Something  ought  to  be 
done  for  her,  really." 

Hearing  of  Grace's  share  in  the  transaction,  he  was 
simply  amazed. 

"  1  think  there  must  be  some  mistake,"  he  said  to  his  wife, 
"  Grace  is  not  the  man — not  the  man  physically"  straight 
ening  his  broad  shoulders,  "  to  be  equal  to  such  a  thing." 

L'ut  the  truth  of  the  report  forced  itself  upon  him  after 
hearing  the  story  repeated  several  times  before  they 
reached  Kiggaii,  and  arriving  at  home  they  heard  the 
whole  story  from  An  ice. 

While  Anice  was  talking,  Mr.  Barholm  began  to  pace 
the  floor  of  the  room  restlessly. 

"I  wish  I  had  been  there,"  he  said.  "I  would  have 
gone  down  myself." 

(It  is  true :  he  would  have  done  so.) 

"  You  are  a  braver  man  than  I  took  yon  for,"  he  said  to 
his  curate,  when  he  saw  him, — and  he  felt  sure  that  he  was 
saying  exactly  the  right  thing.  "  I  should  scarcely  have 
expected  such  dashing  heroism  from  you,  Grace." 

"  I  hardly  regarded  it  in  that  light,"  said  the  little  gen 
tleman,  coloring  sensitively.  "  If  I  had,  I  should  scarcely 
have  expected  it  of  myself." 

The  fact  that  Joan  Lowrie  had  engaged  herself  as  nurse 
to  the  injured  engineer  made  some  gossip  among  her 
acquaintances  at  first,  but  this  soon  died  out.  Thwaite's 
wife  had  a  practical  enough  explanation  of  the  case. 

"Th'  lass  wur  tired  o'  pit-work ;  an'  no  wonder.  She's 
made  up  her  moind  to  ha'  done  wi'  it ;  an'  she's  a  first-rate 
one  to  nurse, — strong  i'  the  arms,  an'  noan  sleepy-headed. 


240  THAT  LASS  V  LOWRIHS. 

Hap  pen  she'll  tak'  up  wi'  it  fur  a  trade.  As  to  it  bein' 
him  as  she  meant  when  she  said  theer  wur  a  ir.on  as  she 
meant  to  save,  it  wur  no  such  thing.  Joan  Lowrie's  noan 
th'  kind  o'  wench  to  be  runnin'  after  gentlefolk, — yo' 
know  that  yoresens.  It's  noan  o'  our  business  who  the 
aion  wur.  Happen  he's  dead  ;  an'  whether  he's  dead  or 
alive,  you'd  better  leave  him  a-be,  an'  her  too." 

In  the  sick  man's  room  the  time  passed  monotonously. 
There  were  days  and  nights  of  heavy  slumber  or  uncon 
sciousness, — restless  mutterings  and  weary  tossings  to  and 
fro.  The  face  upon  the  pillow  was  sometimes  white, 
sometimes  flushed  with  fever ;  but  whatever  change  came 
to  pass,  Death  never  seemed  far  away. 

Grace  lost  appetite,  and  grew  thin  with  protracted 
anxiety  and  watching.  He  would  not  give  up  his  place 
even  to  Anice  or  Mrs.  Barholm,  who  spent  much  of  their 
time  in  the  house.  He  would  barely  consent  to  snatch  a 
few  minutes'  rest  in  the  day-time;  in  truth,  he  could  not 
have  slept  if  he  would.  Joan  held  to  her  post  unflinch 
ingly.  She  took  even  less  respite  than  Grace.  Having 
almost  forced  her  to  leave  the  room  one  morning,  Anice 
went  down-stairs  to  find  her  lying  upon  the  sofa, — her 
hands  clasped  under  her  head,  her  eyes  wide  open. 

"  I  conna  sleep  yet  a  while,"  she  said.  "  Dunnot  let 
it  trouole  yo'.  I'm  used  to  it." 

Sometimes  during  the  long  night  Joan  felt  his  hollow 
eyes  following  her  as  she  moved  about  the  room,  and  fixed 
hungrily  upon  her  when  she  stood  near  him. 

"  Who  are  you  ? "  he  would  say.  "  I  have  seen  you 
before,  and  I  know  your  face  ;  but — but  I  have  lost  your 
name.  Who  are  you  ?  " 

One  night,  as  she  stood  upon  the  hearth,  alone  in  the 
room, — Grace  having  gone  down-stairs  for  something,— 


WATCHING  AND  WAITING.  241 

she  was  startled  by  the  sound  of  Derrick's  voice  falling 
with  a  singular  distinctness  upon  the  silence. 

"  Who  is  it  that  is  standing  there  ? "  he  said.     "  Do  I 

know  you  ?     Yes — it  is •"  but  before  he  could  finish, 

the  momentary  gleam  of  recognition  had  passed  away,  and 
lie  had  wandered  off  again  into  low,  disjointed  murmur- 
ings. 

It  was  always  of  the  mine,  or  one  other  anxiety,  that  he 
spoke.  There  was  something  he  must  do  or  say, — some  de 
cision  he  must  reach.  Must  he  give  up  ?  Could  he  give 
up  ?  Perhaps  he  had  better  go  away, — far  away.  Yes  ; 
he  had  better  go.  No, — he  could  not, — he  must  wait  and 
think  again.  He  was  tired  of  thinking, — tired  of  reason 
ing  and  arguing  with  himself.  Let  it  go  for  a  few  min 
utes.  Give  him  just  an  hour  of  rest.  He  was  full  of 
pain  ;  he  was  losing  himself,  somehow.  And  then,  after 
a  brief  silence,  he  would  begin  again  and  go  the  weary 
round  once  more. 

"  He  has  had  a  great  deal  of  mental  anxiety  of  late,— 
too  much  responsibility,"  said  the  medical  man;  "and  it 
is  going  rather  against  him." 

11 


CHAPTER  XXXYIII. 

RECOGNITION. 

THE  turning-point  was  reached  at  last.  One  evening, 
at  the  close  of  his  usual  visit,  the  doctor  said  to  Grace : 

"  To-morrow,  I  think,  you  will  see  a  marked  alteration. 
I  should  not  be  surprised  to  find  on  my  next  visit  that  his 
mind  had  become  permanently  cleared.  The  intervals  of 
half  consciousness  have  become  lengthened.  Unless  some 
entirely  unlooked-for  change  occurs,  I  feel  sure  that  the 
worst  is  over.  Give  him  close  attention  to-night.  Don't 
let  the  young  woman  leave  the  room." 

That  night  Anice  watched  with  Joan.  It  was  a  strange 
experience  through  which  these  two  passed  together.  If 
Anice  had  not  known  the  truth  before,  she  would  'have 
learned  it  then.  Again  and  again  Derrick  went  the  end 
less  round  of  his  miseries.  How  must  it  end  ?  How 
could  it  end?  What  must  he  do?  How  black  and  nar 
row  the  passages  were !  There  she  was,  coming  toward 

him  from  the  other  end, — and  if  the  props  gave  way ! 

They  were  giving  way ! — Good  God  !  the  light  was  out, 
and  he  was  held  fast  by  the  mass  which  had  fallen  upon 
him.  What  must  he  do  about  her  whom  he  loved,  and 
who  was  separated  from  him  by  this  horrible  wall  ?  He 
was  dying,  and  she  would  never  know  what  he  wanted  to 
tell  her.  What  was  it  that  he  wanted  to  say, — That  lie 
loved  her, — loved  her, — loved  her  !  Could  she  hear  him  ? 
He  must  make  her  hear  him  before  he  died, — "Joan 
Joan!" 


RECOGNITION.  243 

Thus  he  raved  hour  after  hour ;  and  the  two  sat  and 
listened,  often  in  dead  silence ;  but  at  last  there  rose  in 
Joan  Lowrie's  face  a  look  of  such  intense  and  hopeless 
pain,  that  Anice  spoke. 

"  Joan  !  ray  poor  Joan  !  "  she  said. 

Joan's  head  sank  down  upon  her  hands. 

"  I  mun  go  away  fro'  Riggan,"  she  whispered.  "  I  muh 
go  away  afore  he  knows.  Theer's  no  help  fur  me." 

"  No  help  ? "  repeated  Anice  after  her. 

She  did  not  understand. 

"  Theer's  none,"  said  Joan.  "  Dunnot  yo'  see  as  ony 
place  wheer  he  is  con  be  no  place  fur  me  ?  I  thowt —  I 
thowt  the  trouble  wur  aw  on  my  side,  but  it  is  na.  Do 
yo'  think  I'd  stay  an'  let  him  do  hissen  a  wrong  ? " 

Anice  wrung  her  hands  together. 

"  A  wrong  ?  "  she  cried.  "  Not  a  wrong,  Joan — I  can 
not  let  you  call  it  that." 

"  It  would  na  be  nowt  else.  Am  7  fit  wife  fur  a  gen- 
tlemon  ?  Nay,  my  work's  done  when  the  danger's  ower. 
If  he  wakes  to  know  th'  leet  o'  day  to-morrow  morning, 
it's  done  then." 

"  You  do  not  mean,"  said  Anice,  "  that  you  will  leave 
us?" 

"  I  conna  stay  i'  Kiggan  ;  I  mun  go  away." 

Toward  morning  Derrick  became  quieter.  He  mut 
tered  less  and  less  until  his  voice  died  away  altogether, 
and  he  sank  into  a  profound  slumber.  Grace,  coming  in 
and  finding  him  sleeping,  turned  to  Joan  with  a  look  of 
intense  relief. 

"  The  worst  is  over,"  he  said  ;  "  now  we  may  hope  for 
the  best." 

"Ay,"  Joan  answered,  quietly,  "th'  worst  is  ower — fur 
him." 


244:  THAT  LASS  0'   LOWRI&S. 

At  last  darkness  gave  way  to  a  faint  gray  light,  and 
then  the  gray  sky  showed  long  slender  streaks  of  wintry 
red,  gradually  widening  and  deepening  until  all  the  east 
seemed  flashed. 

"  It's  morn  in',"  said  Joan,  turning  from  the  window  to 
the  bed.  "  I  mun  gi'  him  th'  drops  again." 

She  was  standing  near  the  pillow  when  the  first  flood 
of  the  sunlight  poured  in  at  the  window.  At  this  moment 
Derrick  awoke  from  his  sleep  to  a  full  recognition  of  all 
around  him.  But  the  strength  of  his  delirium  had  died 
out ;  his  prostration  was  so  utter,  that  for  the  moment  he 
had  no  power  to  speak  and  could  only  look  up  at  the  pale 
face  hopelessly.  It  seemed  as  if  the  golden  glow  of  the 
morning  light  transfigured  it. 

"  He's  awake,"  Joan  said,  moving  away  and  speaking 
to  those  on  the  other  side  of  the  room.  "  Will  one  on  yo7 
pour  out  th'  medicine?  My  hand's  noan  steady." 

Grace  went  to  the  bedside  hurriedly. 

"  Derrick,"  he  said,  bending  down,  "  do  you  know 
me?" 

"Yes,"  Derrick  answered  in  a  faltering  whisper,  and  as 
he  said  it  the  bedroom  door  closed.  Both  of  them  heard 
it.  A  shadow  fell  upon  the  sick  man's  face.  His  eyes 
met  his  friend's  with  a  question  in  them,  and  the  next  in 
stant  the  question  put  itself  into  words  : 

"  Who— went  out  ?  " 

Grace  bent  lower. 

"  It  was  Joan  Lowrie." 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  waited  a  little  as  if  to  gain  fresh 
strength.  There  rose  a  faint  flush  upon  his  hollow  cheeks, 
and  his  mouth  trembled. 

«  How  "-he  said  next—"  how— long  ?  " 


RECOGNITION.  245 

"  Yon  mean  to  ask  me,"  said  Grace,  "  how  long  she  has 
been  here  ? " 

A  motion  of  assent. 

"  She  has  been  here  from  the  first." 

He  asked  no  further  questions.  His  eyes  closed  once 
more  and  he  lay  silent. 


CHAPTEE  XXXIX. 

A   TESTIMONIAL. 

JOAN  went  back  to  her  lodgings  at  the  Thwaites'  and 
left  Mrs.  Barholm  and  Anice  to  fill  her  place. 

Too  prostrate  to  question  his  nurses,  Derrick  could  only 
lie  with  closed  eyes  helpless  and  weary.  He  could  not 
even  keep  himself  awake  long  enough  to  work  his  way  to 
any  very  clear  memories  of  what  had  happened.  He  had  so 
many  half  recollections  to  tantalize  him.  He  could  re 
member  his  last  definite  sensation, — a  terrible  shock  fling 
ing  him  to  the  ground,  a  second  of  pain  and  horror,  and 
then  utter  oblivion.  Had  he  awakened  one  night  and  seen 
Joan  Lowrie  by  the  dim  fire-light  and  called  out  to  her, 
and  then  lost  himself  ?  Had  he  awakened  for  a  second  or 
BO  again  and  seen  her  standing  close  to  his  pillow,  looking 
down  at  him  with  an  agony  of  dread  in  her  face  ? 

In  answer  to  his  question,  Grace  had  told  him  that  she 
had  been  with  him  from  the  first.  How  had  it  happened  ? 
This  he  asked  himself  again  and  again,  until  he  grew 
feverish  over  it. 

"  Above  all  things,"  he  heard  the  doctor  say,  "  don't  let 
him  talk  and  don't  talk  to  him." 

But  Grace  comprehended  something  of  his  mental  con 
dition. 

"  I  see  by  your  look  that  you  wish  to  question  me,"  he 
said  to  him.  "  Have  patience  for  a  few  days  and  then  I 
will  answer  every  question  you  may  ask.  Try  to  rest 
upon  that  assurance." 


A  TESTIMONIAL.  247 

There  was  one  question,  however,  which  would  not 
wait.  Grace  saw  it  lying  in  the  eager  eyes  and  answered 
it. 

"  Joan  Lowrie,"  he  said,  "  has  gone  home." 

Joan's  welcome  at  the  Thwaites'  house  was  tumultuous. 
The  children  crowded  about  her,  neighbors  dropped  in, 
both  men  and  women  wanting  to  have  a  word  with  her. 
There  were  few  of  them  who  had  not  met  with  some  loss 
by  the  explosion,  and  there  were  those  among  them  who 
had  cause  to  remember  the  girl's  daring. 

"How's  th'  engineer?"  they  asked.  "What  do  th' 
doctors  say  o'  him  ? " 

"  He'll  get  better,"  she  answered.  "  They  say  as  he's 
out  o'  danger." 

"  "Wur  na  it  him  as  had  his  head  on  yore  knee  when  yo5 
come  up  i'  th'  cage  ?  "  asked  one  woman. 

Mrs.  Thwaite  answered  for  her  with  some  sharpness. 
They  should  not  gossip  about  Joan,  if  she  could  help  it. 

"  I  dunnot  suppose  as  she  knowd  th'  difference  betwixt 
one  mon  an'  another,"  she  said.  "  It  wur  na  loikely  as 
she'd  pick  and  choose.  Let  th'  lass  ha'  a  bit  o'  quoiet, 
wenches.  Yo'  moither  her  wi'  yore  talk." 

"  It's  an  ill  wind  as  blows  nobody  good,"  said  Thwaite 
himself.  "  Th'  explosion  has  done  one  thing — it's  made 
th'  mesters  change  their  minds.  They're  i'  th'  humor  to 
do  what  th'  engineer  axed  fur,  now." 

"  Ay,"  said  a  tired-looking  woman,  whose  poor  attempt 
at  mourning  told  its  own  story ;  "  but  that  wunnot  bring 
my  mester  back." 

"  Nay,"  said  another,  "nor  my  two  lads." 

There  had  been  a  great  deal  of  muttered  discontent 
among  the  colliers  before  the  accident,  and  since  its  occur 
rence  there  had  been  signs  of  open  rebellion.  Then,  too, 


24:8  THAT  LASS  &  LOWKIETS. 

results  had  proved  that  the  seasonable  adoption  of  Derrick's 
plan  would  have  saved  some  lives  at  least,  and.  in  fact, 
some  future  expenditure.  Most  of  the  owners,  perhaps, 
felt  somewhat  remorseful ;  a  few,  it  is  not  impossible,  ex 
perienced  nothing  more  serious  than  annoyance  and 
embarrassment,  but  it  is  certain  that  there  were  one  or  two 
who  were  crushed  by  a  sense  of  personal  responsibility  foj 
what  had  occurred. 

It  was  one  of  these  who  made  the  proposition  that  Der 
rick's  plan  be  accepted  unreservedly,  and  that  the  engineei 
himself  should  be  requested  to  resume  his  position  and 
undertake  the  management  of  the  work.  There  was  some 
slight  demurring  at  first,  but  the  catastrophe  was  so  recent 
that  its  effect  had  not  had  time  to  wear  away,  and  finally 
the  agreement  was  made. 

But  at  that  time  Derrick  was  lying  senseless  in  the  bed 
room  over  the  parlor,  and  the  deputation  from  the  company 
could  only  wait  upon  Grace,  and  make  an  effort  at  express 
ing  their  sympathy. 

After  Joan's  return  to  her  lodgings,  she,  too,  was  visited. 
There  was  some  curiosity  felt  concerning  her.  A  young 
and  handsome  woman,  who  had  taken  so  remarkable  a 
part  in  the  tragedy,  was  necessarily  an  object  of  interest. 

Mr.  Barholm  was  so  fluently  decided  in  his  opinion  that 
something  really  ought  to  be  done,  that  a  visit  to  the  hero 
ine  of  the  day  was  the  immediate  result.  There  was  only 
one  form  the  appreciation  of  a  higher  for  a  lower  social 
grade  could  take,  and  it  was  Mr.  Barholm  who  had  been, 
naturally,  selected  as  spokesman.  He  explained  to  Joan 
the  nature  of  the  visit.  His  friends  of  the  Company  had 
heard  the  story  of  her  remarkable  heroism,  and  had  felt 
that  something  was  due  to  her — some  token  of  the  admira 
tion  her  conduct  had  inspired  in  them.  They  had  agreed 


A   TESTIMONIAL.  249 

that  something  ought  to  be  done,  and  they  had  called  this 
evening  to  present  her  with  a  little  testimonial. 

The  bundle  of  crisp  bank-notes  burned  the  hand  of  the 
man  who  held  them,  as  Joan  Lowrie  listened  to  this  speech. 
She  stood  upright  before  them,  resting  one  hand  upon  the 
back  of  a  chair,  but  when  the  bearer  of  the  testimonial  in 
question  rose,  she  made  a  step  forward.  There  was  more 
of  her  old  self  in  her  gesture  than  she  had  shown  for 
months.  Her  eyes  flashed,  her  face  hardened,  a  sudden 
red  flew  to  her  cheek. 

"  Put  it  up,"  she  said.     "  I  wunnot  tak'  it." 

The  man  who  had  the  money  laid  it  upon  the  table,  as 
if  he  were  anxious  to  be  rid  of  it.  He  was  in  a  glow  of 
anger  and  shame  at  the  false  step  they  had  made. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said.  "  I  see  we  have  made  a 
mistake." 

"  Ay,"  she  said,  "  yo'  ha'  made  a  mistake.  If  yo'  choose 
to  tak'  that  an'  gi'e  it  to  th'  women  an*  childer  as  is  left  to 
want  bread,  yo'  may  do  it  an'  welcome." 


CHAPTER  X.L. 

GOING    SOUTH. 

T;<E  first  day  Fergus  Derrick  was  allowed  to  spend  an 
hoai  in  an  easy-chair  by  the  fire,  he  heard  the  story  of  hit. 
rescue  from  the  lips  of  his  friend,  listening  to  it.  as  he* 
rested  against  the  propping  cushions. 

"  Don't  be  afraid  of  exciting  me,"  he  had  said  to  Grace. 
"  I  have  conjectured  until  I  am  tired  of  it.  Tell  me  the 
whole  story.  Let  me  hear  the  end  now" 

Derrick's  breath  came  quick  and  short  as  he  listened, 
and  his  haggard  face  flushed.  It  was  not  only  to  his 
friend  he  owed  his  life,  but  to  Joan  Lowrie. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  her,"  he  said  when  Grace  had  fin 
ished.  "  As  for  you,  Grace — well — words  are  poor 
things." 

"  They  are  very  poor  things  between  friends,"  was 
Grace's  answer  ;  "  so  let  us  have  none  of  them.  You  are 
on  this  side  of  the  grave,  dear  fellow — that  is  enough." 

During  the  rest  of  the  day  Derrick  was  silent  and 
abstracted,  but  plainly  full  of  active  thought.  By  night 
fall  a  feverish  spot  burned  upon  his  cheek,  and  his  pulse 
had  quickened  dangerously. 

"  I  must  wait,"  he  said  to  Grace,  "  and  it  is  hard  work.' 

Just  at  that  time  An  ice  was  sitting  in  her  room  at  the 
rectory,  thinking  of  Joan  also,  when  there  came  to  her  the 
Bound  of  footsteps  in  the  passage  and  then  a  summons  to 
the  door. 

"  You  may  come  in,"  she  said. 


GOING  SOUTH.  251 

But  it  was  not  a  servant,  as  she  had  supposed ;  it  was 
Joan,  with  a  bundle  upon  her  arm. 

"  You  are  going  away,  Joan  \  "  she  said.     "  To-night  ?  " 

"  Ay,"  Joan  answered,  as  she  came  and  stood  upon  the 
hearth.  "  I'm  goin'  away  to-neet." 

"  You  have  quite  made  up  your  mind  ?  " 

"  Ay,"  said  Joan.  "  I  mun  break  loose.  I  want  to  get 
as  far  fro'  th'  owd  life  as  I  con.  I'd  loike  to  forget  th' 
most  on  it.  I'm  goin'  to-neet,  because  I  dunnot  want  to 
be  axed  questions.  If  I  passed  thro'  th'  town  by  day-leet, 
theer's  them  as  ud  fret  me  wi'  their  talk." 

"Have  you  seen  Mr.  Grace?  "  An  ice  asked. 

"  No.  I  shanna  ha'  th'  chance  to  say  good-bye  to  him. 
I  coom  partly  to  ax  yo'  to  say  it  fur  me." 

"  Yes,  I  will  say  it.  I  wish  there  were  no  need  that  I 
should,  though.  I  wish  I  could  keep  you." 

There  was  a  brief  silence.  Joan  knelt  on  one  knee  by 
the  fender. 

"I  ha'  bin  thinkin'  o'  Liz,"  she  said.  "I  thowt  I'd  ax 
yo' — if  it  wur  to  happen  so  as  she'd  drift  back  here  agen 
while  I  wur  away — as  yo'd  say  a  kind  word  to  her,  an'  tell 
her  about  th'  choild,  an'  how  as  I  nivver  thowt  hard  on 
her,  an'  as  th'  day  nivver  wur  as  I  did  na  pity  her  fro'  th' . 
bottom  o'  my  soul.  I'm  goin'  toward  th'  south,"  she  said 
again  after  a  while.  "  They  say  as  th'  south  is  as  differ 
ent  fro'  th'  north  as  th'  day  is  fro'  the  neet.  I  ha'  money 
enow  to  help  me  on,  an'  when  I  stop  I  shall  look  fur 
work." 

Anice's  face  lighted  up  suddenly. 

"  To  the  south!  "  she  said.  "  Why  did  I  not  think  of 
that  before.  If  you  go  toward  the  south,  there  is  Ashley- 
Wold  and  grandmamma,  Mrs.  Galloway.  I  will  write  to 
her  now,  if  you  will  let  me,"  rising  to  her  feet. 


252  THAT  LASS  0>  LOWRIE'S. 

"  If  yo'll  gi'  me  th'  letter,  I'll  tak>  it  an'  thank  yo',"  said 
Joan.  "If  she  conld  help  me  to  work  or  th'  loike,  I 
should  be  glad  enow." 

Anice's  mother's  mother  had  always  been  her  safest 
resource  in  the  past,  and  yet,  curiously  enough,  she  had 
not  thought  of  turning  toward  her  in  this  case  until  Joan's 
words  had  suggested  such  a  course. 

Joan  took  the  letter  and  put  it  in  the  bosom  of  her 
dress. 

"  Theer's  no  more  danger  fur  him  f "  she  said. 
"  Thwaite  towd  me  he  wur  better." 

She  spoke  questioningly,  and  Anice  answered  her — 

"  Yes,  he  is  out  of  danger.  Joan,  what  am  I  to  say  to 
him  ? " 

"  To  say  to  him  I " 

She  started  slightly,  but  ended  with  a  strained  quiet 
ness  of  manner. 

"  Theer's  nowt  to  say,"  she  added,  rising,  and  prepar 
ing  to  go. 

Anice  rose  also.  She  held  out  both  her  hands,  and 
Joan  took  them. 

"  I  will  go  down-stairs  with  you,"  said  Anice ;  and  they 
^went  out  together. 

"When  they  reached  the  front  door,  they  kissed  each 
other,  and  Anice  stood  in  the  lighted  hall  and  w&tched 
the  girl's  departure. 

"  Good-bye !  "  she  said  ;  "  and  God  bless  you ! " 

Early  in  the  morning,  Derrick  called  his  friend  to  hig 
bedside. 

"  I  have  had  a  bad  night,"  he  said  to  him. 

"Yes,"  Grace  answered.  "It  is  easy  enough  to  see 
that." 


GOING  SOUTH.  253 

There  was  an  unnatural  sparkle  in  the  hollow  eyes,  and 
the  flush  upon  the  cheek  had  not  faded  away. 

Derrick  tried  to  laugh,  and  moved  restlessly  upon  his 
pillow. 

"  So  I  should  imagine,"  said  he.  "  The  fact  is — well, 
you  see  I  have  been  thinking." 

"  About—  " 

"Yes — yes — Grace,  I  cannot  wait — I  must  hear  some 
thing.  A  hundred  things  might  happen.  I  must  at  least 
be  sure  she  is  not  far  away.  I  shall  never  regain  strength 
as  long  as  I  have  not  the  rest  that  knowledge  will  bring 
me.  Will  you  go  to  her  and  take  her  a  few  words  of 
gratitude  from  me  ? " 

"  Yes,  readily." 

"  Will  you  go  now  ? " 

«  Yes." 

Grace  would  have  left  the  room,  but  Derrick  stretched 
out  his  hand  and  touched  him. 

«  Stay—  "  he  said. 

Grace  turned  to  him  again. 

"  You  know  " — in  the  old  resolute  way — "  you  know 
what  I  mean  the  end  to  be,  if  it  may  be  ? " 

«  I  think  I  do." 

Grace  appeared  at  the  rectory  very  soon  afterward,  and 
asked  for  Miss  Barholrn.  Anice  came  down  into  the  par 
lor  to  meet  him  at  once.  She  could  not  help  guessing 
that  foi  some  reason  or  other  he  had  come  to  speak  of 
Joan,  and  his  first  words  confirmed  her  impression. 

"  I  have  j  ust  left  the  Thwaites',"  he  said.  "  I  went  there 
to  see  Joan  Lowrie,  and  find  that  she  is  not  there.  Mrs. 
Thwaite  told  me  that  she  had  left  Riggan.  Is  that  true?  " 

"  Yes.  She  went  away  last  night.  She  came  here  to 
bid  me  good-bye,  and  leave  a  farewell  message  for  you." 


254  THAT  LASS  0'   LOWRIE'b. 

Grace  was  both  troubled  and  embarrassed. 

"  I "  he  faltered.     "  Do  you  understand  it?  " 

"  Yes,"  Anice  answered. 

Their  eyes  met,  and  she  went  on : 

"  You  know  we  have  said  that  it  was  best  that  she  should 
break  away  entirely  from  the  past.  She  has  gone  to  try 
if  it  is  possible  to  do  it.  She  wants  another  life  alto 
gether." 

"  I  do  not  know  what  I  must  do,"  said  Grace.  "You 
Bay  she  has  gone  away,  and  I — I  came  to  her  from  Der 
rick." 

"  From  Mr.  Derrick ! "  Anice  exclaimed ;  and  then 
both  relapsed  into  silence. 

It  was  Anice  who  spoke  first. 

"  Mamma  was  going  to  send  some  things  to  Mr.  Derrick 
this  morning,"  she  said.  "  I  will  have  the  basket  packed 
and  take  it  myself.  If  you  will  let  me,  I  will  go  with 
you  as  soon  as  I  can  have  the  things  prepared." 


CHAPTER  XLI. 


THE  interview  between  Anice  and  Derrick  was  a  long 
one.  At  the  end  Derrick  said  : 

"  I  shall  go  to  Ashley-Wold." 

Grace  had  been  called  out  almost  immediately  after  his 
return  to  the  house ;  but  on  his  way  home  he  met  Anice, 
and  having  something  to  say  about  the  school,  he  turned 
toward  the  rectory  with  her. 

They  had  not  gone  far,  however,  before  they  were 
joined  by  a  third  party, — Mr.  Sammy  Craddock,  who  was 
wending  his  way  Crownward.  Seeing  them,  Mr.  Crad 
dock  hesitated  for  a  moment,  as  if  feeling  somewhat 
doubtful ;  but  as  they  approached  him,  he  pulled  off  his 
bat. 

"  I  dunnot  know,"  he  said,  "  after  aw,  if  it  would  not 
be  as  well  to  ha'  a  witness.  Hope  yo're  nicely,  Miss," 
affably  ;  "  an'  th'  same  to  yo',  Parson.  Would  yo '," 
clearing  his  throat,  "  would  yo'  moind  shakin'  honds  wi'  a 
chap?" 

Grace  gave  him  his  hand. 

"  Thank  yo',  Parson,"  said  "  Owd  Sammy."  "  It's  th' 
first  toime,  yo'  know,  but  it  shanna  be  th'  last,  if  yo'  dun- 
not  see  owt  agen  it.  Th'  truth  is,  as  it's  summat  as  has 
been  on  my  moind  fur  some  toime, — ivver  sin'  th'  acci 
dent,  i'  fact.  Pluck's  pluck,  yo'  see,  whether  yo're  fur  a 
mon  or  agen  him.  Yo're  not  mich  to  look  at.  Yo'  mowt 


256  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRIE'8. 

be  handsomer,  an'  yo'  mowt  be  likelier, — yo'  mowt  easily 
ha'  more  muscle,  an'  yo'  dunnot  look  as  if  yo'  wur  like  to 
be  inich  i'  argyment ;  but  yo're  getten  a  backbone  o'  yore 
own, — I'm  clanged  if  yo'  ha'  na." 

"  I'm  much  obliged  to  you,  I  am  sure,"  said  Grace. 

"  Yo'  need  na  be,"  answered  Sammy,  encouragingly. 
"  Yo'  need  na  be.  If  yo'd  getten  owt  to  be  obleeged  to 
me  fur,  I  should  na  ha  so  mich  to  say.  Yo'  see  I'm 
makin'  a  soart  o'  pollygy, — a  soart  o'  pollygy,"  with  evi 
dent  enjoyment  of  the  word.  "  An'  that's  why  I  said  as 
it  mowt  be  as  well  to  ha'  a  witness.  I  wur  allus  one  as 
set  more  store  by  th'  state  than  th'  church,  an'  parsons 
wur  na  i'  my  line,  an'  happen  I  ha'  ben  a  bit  hard  on  yo', 
an'  ha'  said  things  as  carried  weight  agen  yo'  wi'  them  as 
valleyed  my  opinion  o'  things  i'  general.  An'  sin'  th' 
blow-up,  I  ha  made  up  my  moind  as  I  would  na  rnoind 
tellin'  yo'  as  I  wur  agoin'  to  wi'draw  my  oppysition,  sin' 
it  seemit  as  if  I'd  made  a  bit  o'  a  mistake.  Yo're  ney- 
ther  knave  nor  foo',  if  yo'  are  a  parson.  Theer  now  1 
Good-mornin'  to  yo' ! " 

"  Noan  on  'em  con  say  as  I  wur  na  fair,"  "  Owd  Sam 
my  "  said  to  himself,  as  he  went  on  his  way  shaking  his 
head,  "  I  could  na  ha'  done  no  fairer.  He  desarved  a  bit 
o'  commendation,  an  I  let  him  ha'  it.  Be  fair  wi'  a  mon, 
say  I,  parson  or  no.  An'  he  is  na  th'  wrong  sort,  after  aw." 

He  was  so  well  pleased  with  himself,  that  he  even 
carried  his  virtue  into  The  Crown,  and  diffused  it  abroad 
over  his  pint  of  sixpenny.  He  found  it  not  actually  un 
pleasant  to  display  himself  as  a  magnate,  who,  having 
made  a  most  natural  mistake,  had  been  too  independent 
and  straightforward  to  let  the  matter  rest,  and  conse 
quently  had  gone  to  the  magnificent  length  of  apologetic 
explanation. 


"A  SO  ART  O1  POLLYGY."  257 

"  I  ha'  bin  havin'  a  word  or  so  wi'  th'  little  parson,"  he 
said.  "  I  ha'  ben  tellin'  him  what  I  thowt  o'  what  he  did 
th'  day  o'  th'  blow-up.  I  changed  my  moind  about  th' 
little  chap  that  day,  an'  I  ha'  ben  tellin'  him  so." 

"  Yo'  ha'  ?  "  in  an  amazed  chorus.  "  Well,  now,  that 
theer  wur  a  turn,  Sammy." 

"Ay,  it  wur.  I'm  noan  afeard  to  speak  my  moind  one 
way  or  t'other,  yo'  see.  When  a  mon  shows  as  he's  med 
o'  th'  reet  cloth,  I  am  na  afeard  to  tell  him  I  loike  th1 
web." 


CHAPTEK  XLII. 

ASHLEY-WOLD. 

Two  weeks  after  Joan  left  Riggan,  she  entered  the  vil 
lage  of  Ashley-Wold  on  foot.  With  the  exception  of  a 
few  miles  here  and  there,  when  a  friendly  wagoner  had 
offered  her  a  lift,  she  had  made  all  her  journey  in  this 
manner.  She  had  met  with  discouragement  and  disap 
pointment.  She  had  not  fancied  that  it  would  be  an  easy 
matter  to  find  work,  though  she  had  expressed  no  doubt 
to  Anice,  but  it  was  even  a  more  difficult  matter  than  she 
had  imagined.  At  some  places  work  was  not  to  be  had, 
in  others  the  fact  that  she  was  an  utter  stranger  went 

O 

against  her. 

It  was  evening  when  she  came  to  Ashley -Wold ;  the 
rain  was  falling  soft  and  slowly,  and  the  air  was  chill. 
She  was  cold,  and  faint  with  hunger.  The  firelight  that 
shone  through  the  cottage  windows  brought  to  her  an 
acute  sense  of  her  bodily  weariness  through  its  suggestion 
of  rest  and  cheerfulness.  The  few  passers-by — principally 
men  and  women  returning  from  their  daily  labor — glanced 
at  her  curiously. 

She  had  held  to  the  letter  as  a  last  resource.  When  she 
could  not  help  herself  she  would  ask  for  assistance,  but 
not  until  then.  Still  she  had  always  turned  her  face  to 
ward  Ashley-Wold.  Now  she  meant  to  go  to  Mrs.  Gallo 
way  and  deliver  the  letter. 

Upon  entering  the  village  she  had  stopped  and  asked  a 


ASHLEY-  WOLD.  259 

farmer  for  directions.  He  had  stared  at  her  at  first, 
hardly  comprehending  her  northern  dialect,  but  had 
finally  understood  and  pointed  out  the  house,  whose  gables 
could  be  seen  from  the  road-side. 

So  Joan  made  her  way  toward  it  through  the  evening 
rain  and  mist.  It  was  a  pretty  place,  with  a  quaint  pic- 
turesqueness.  A  hedge,  which  was  a  marvel  of  triinness, 
surrounded  the  garden,  ivy  clung  to  the  walls  and  gables, 
and  fancifully  clipped  box  and  other  evergreens  made  a 
modest  greenery  about  it,  winter  though  it  was.  At  her 
first  glance  at  this  garden  Joan  felt  something  familiar  in 
it.  Perhaps  Anice  herself  had  planned  some  portion  of 
it.  Joan  paused  a  moment  and  stood  looking  over  the 
hedge. 

Mrs.  Galloway,  sitting  at  her  work-table  near  the  win 
dow,  had  found  her  attention  attracted  a  few  moments  be 
fore  by  a  tall  young  woman  coming  down  the  road  which 
passed  on  one  side  of  the  hedge. 

"  There  is  something  a  little  remarkable  about  her," 
she  said.  "  She  certainly  does  not  belong  to  Ashley- 
Wold." 

Then  Joan  stopped  by  the  hedge  and  she  saw  her 
face  and  uttered  a  low  exclamation  of  surprise  at  ita 
beauty.  She  drew  nearer  to  the  window  and  looked  out 
at  her. 

"  She  must  be  very  cold,"  said  Mrs.  Galloway.  "  She 
looks  as  if  she  had  made  a  long  journey.  I  will  send 
Hollis  to  her." 

A  few  minutes  later  there  tripped  down  the  garden- 
walk  a  trimly  attired  young  housemaid. 

The  mistress  had  seen  her  from  the  window  and 
thought  she  looked  cold  and  tired.  Would  she  come  into 
the  house  to  rest  ? 


260  THAI   LASS  0'  LOWRIE'8. 

Joan  answered  with  a  tinge  of  color  on  her  cheek.  She 
felt  a  little  like  a  beggar. 

"  Thank  yo' ;  I'll  come,"  she  said.  "  If  th'  mistress  is 
Mrs.  Galloway,  I  ha'  a  letter  fur  her  fro'  Lancashire." 

Mrs.  Galloway  met  them  on  the  threshold. 

"  The  young  woman,  ma'am,"  said  the  servant,  "  has  a 
letter  from  Lancashire." 

"  From  Lancashire  !  "  said  Mrs.  Galloway. 

"  Fro'  Riggan,  mistress,"  said  Joan.  "  Fro'  Miss  Anice. 
I'm  Joan  Lowrie." 

That  Joan  Lowrie  was  a  name  familiar  to  her  was  evi 
dent  by  the  change  in  Mrs.  Galloway's  face.  A  faint 
flush  of  pleasure  warmed  it,  and  she  spoke  quickly. 

"Joan  Lowrie!/'  she  said.  "My  dear  child's  friend! 
Then  I  know  you  very  well.  Come  into  the  room,  my  dear." 

She  led  her  into  the  room  and  closed  the  door. 

"  You  are  very  cold  and  your  shawl  is  wet,"  laying  a 
kind  hand  upon  it.  "  Give  it  to  me,  and  take  a  seat  by 
the  fire.  You  must  warm  yourself  thoroughly  and  have  a 
cup  of  tea,"  she  said,  "  and  then  I  will  begin  to  ask  ques 
tions." 

There  was  a  wide,  low-seated,  low-armed,  soft-cushioned 
chair  at  one  side  of  the  fire,  and  in  this  chair  she  had 
made  Joan  seat  herself.  The  sudden  change  from  the 
chill  dampness  of  the  winter  day  to  the  exquisite  relief 
and  rest,  almost  overcame  the  girl.  She  was  deadly  pale 
when  Mrs.  Galloway  ceased,  and  her  lips  trembled ;  she 
tried  to  speak,  and  for  a  moment  could  not ;  tears  rushed 
to  her  eyes  and  stood  in  them.  But  she  managed  to  an 
swer  at  last. 

"  I  beg  yore  pardon,"  she  said.  "  Yo'  ha'  no  need  to 
moind  me.  Th'  warmth  has  made  me  a  bit  faint,  that'a 
aw.  I've  noan  been  used  to  it  lately." 


ASHLEY-  WOLD.  261 

Mrs.  Galloway  came  and  stood  near  her. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  hear  that,  my  dear,"  she  said. 

"  Yo're  very  kind,  ma'am,"  Joan  ans\vered. 

She  drew  the  letter  from  her  dress  and  handed  it  to  her. 

"  I  getten  that  fro'  Miss  Anice  the  neet  I  left  Riggan," 
she  said. 

When  the  tea  was  brought  in  and  Joan  had  sat  down, 
the  old  lady  read  the  letter. 

"  Keep  her  with  you  if  you  can.  Give  her  the  help  she 
•needs  most.  She  has  had  a  hard  life,  and  wants  to  forget 

itr 

"Now,  I  wonder,"  said  Mrs.  Galloway  to  herself, 
"  what  the  help  is  that  she  needs  most  ? " 

The  rare  beauty  of  the  face  impressed  her  as  it  invari 
ably  impressed  strangers,  but  she  looked  beneath  the  sur 
face  and  saw  something  more  in  it  than  its  beauty.  She 
saw  its  sadness,  its  resolution. 

When  Joan  rose  from  the  table,  the  old  lady  was  still 
standing  with  the  letter  in  her  hand.  She  folded  it  and 
spoke  to  her. 

"  If  you  are  sufficiently  rested,  I  should  like  you  to  sit 
down  and  talk  to  me  a  little.  I  want  to  speak  to  you 
about  your  plans." 

"  Then,"  said  Joan,  "  happen  I'd  better  tell  yo'  at  tk' 
start  as  I  ha'  none." 

Mrs.  Galloway  put  her  hand  upon  her  shoulder. 

"  Then,"  she  returned,  "  that  is  all  the  better  for  me, 
for  I  have  in  my  mind  one  of  my  own.  You  would  like 
to  find  work  to  help  you — 

"  I  mun  find  work,"  Joan  interrupted,  "  or  starve." 

"  Of  any  kind  ?  "  questioningly. 

"I  ha'  worked  at  th'  pit's  mouth  aw  my  life,"  said 
Joan.  "  I  need  na  be  dainty,  yo'  see." 


262  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRIE'8. 

Mrs.  Galloway  smoothed  the  back  of  the  small,  with 
ered  hand  upon  her  knee  with  the  palm  of  the  other. 

"  Then,  perhaps,"  she  said  slowly,  "  you  will  not  refuse 
to  accept  my  offer  and  stay  here — with  me  ?  " 

"  Wi'  yo'  ?  "  Joan  exclaimed. 

"  I  am  an  old  woman,  you  see,"  Mrs.  Galloway  answered. 
"  I  have  lived  in  Ashley- Wold  all  my  life,  and  have,  as  it 
were,  accumulated  duties,  and  now  as  the  years  go  by,  I 
do  not  find  it  so  easy  to  perform  them  as  I  used  to.  I 
need  a  companion  who  is  young  and  strong,  and  quick  to 
understand  the  wants  of  those  who  suffer.  Will  you  stay 
here  and  help  me  ?  " 

"  Wi'  yo'  ? "  said  Joan  again.  "  Nay,"  she  cried  ;  "  nay 
— that  is  not  fur  me.  I  am  na  fit." 

On  her  way  to  her  chamber  some  hours  later  Mrs.  Gallo 
way  stopped  at  the  room  which  had  been  Anice's,  and 
looked  in  upon  her  guest.  But  Joan  was  not  asleep,  as 
she  had  hoped  to  find  her.  She  stood  at  the  fireside,  look 
ing  into  the  blaze. 

"  Will  you  come  here  a  minnit  ?  "  she  said. 

She  looked  haggard  and  wearied,  but  the  eyes  she 
raised  to  her  hostess  were  resolute. 

"  Theer s  summat  as  I  ha'  held  back  fro'  sayin'  to  yo'," 
she  said,  "  an'  th'  more  I  think  on  it,  th'  more  I  see  as  I 
mun  tell  yo'  if  I  mean  to  begin  fair  an'  clear.  I  ha'  a 
trouble  as  I'm  fain  to  hide ;  it's  a  trouble  as  I  ha'  fowt 
wi'  an'  ha'  na  helped  my  sen  agen.  It's  na  a  shame," 
straightening  herself ;  "  it's  a  trouble  such  as  ony 
woman  might  bear  an'  be  honest.  I  coom  away  fro' 
Kiggan  to  be  out  o'  th'  way  on  it — not  to  forget  it,  for  I 
conna — but  so  as  I  should  na  be  so  near  to — to  th'  hurt 
on  it," 

"  I  do  not  need  another  word,"  Mrs.  Galloway  answered 


ASHLEY-  WOLD.  263 

"  If  you  had  chosen  to  keep  it  a  secret,  it  would  have  been 
your  own  secret  as  long  as  you  chose  that  it  should  be  so. 
There  is  nothing  more  you  need?  Very  well.  Good 
night,  my  dear  1 " 


CHAPTEK  XLIII. 

LIZ    COMES  BACK. 

"Miss,"  said  Mrs.  Thwaite,  "  it  wur  last  neet,  an'  you 
mowt  ha'  knocked  me  down  wi'  a  feather,  fur  I  seed  her 
as  plain  as  I  see  yo'." 

"  Then,"  said  Anice,  "  she  must  be  in  Riggan  now." 

"  Ay,"  the  woman  answered,  "  that  she  mun,  though 
wheer,  God  knows,  I  dunnot.  It  wur  pretty  late,  yo'  see, 
an'  I  wur  gettin'  th'  mester's  supper  ready,  an'  as  I  turns 
mysen  fro'  tlr  oven,  wheer  I  had  been  stoopin'  down  to 
look  at  th'  bit  o'  bacon,  I  seed  her  face  agen  th'  winder, 
starin'  in  at  me  wild  loike.  Aye,  it  wur  her  sure  enow, 
poor  wench  !  She  wur  loike  death  itsen — main  different 
fro'  th'  bit  o'  a  soft,  pretty,  leet-headed  lass  she  used  to  be." 

"  I  will  go  and  speak  to  Mr.  Grace,"  Anice  said. 

The  habit  of  referring  to  Grace  was  growing  stronger 
every  day.  She  met  him  not  many  yards  away,  and 
before  she  spoke  to  him  saw  that  he  was  not  ignorant  of 
what  she  had  to  say. 

"  I  think  you  know  what  I  am  going  to  tell  you,"  she 
said. 

"  I  think  I  do,"  was  his  reply. 

The  rumor  had  come  to  him  from  an  acquaintance  of 
the  Maxeys,  and  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  go  to  them 
at  once. 

"Ay,"  said  the  mother,  regarding  them  with  rather 
resentful  curiosity,  "  she  wur  here  this  mornin' — Liz  war. 
She  wur  in  a  bad  way  enow —  said  she'd  been  out  on  th' 


LIZ  COMES  BACK.  265 

tramp  fur  nigh  a  week — seemit  a  bit  out  o'  her  head. 
Th'  mon  had  left  her  again,  as  she  mowt  ha'  knowed  he 
would.  Ay,  lasses  is  foo's.  She'd  ben  i'  th'  Union,  too, 
bad  o'  th'  fever.  I  towd  her  she'd  better  ha'  stayed  theer. 
She  wanted  to  know  wheer  Joan  Lowrie  wur,  an'  kept 
axin  fur  her  till  I  wur  tired  o'  hearin'  her,  and  towd  her 
so." 

"  Did  she  ask  about  her  little  child  ? "  said  Anice. 

"  Ay,  I  think  she  did,  if  I  remember  reet.  She  said 
summat  about  wantin'  to  know  wheer  we'd  put  it,  an'  if 
Joan  wur  dead,  too.  But  it  did  na  seem  to  be  th'  choild 
she  cared  about  so  much  as  Joan  Lowrie." 

"  Did  you  tell  her  where  we  buried  it  ? "  Grace  asked. 

«  Ay." 

"  Thank  you.  I  will  go  to  the  church-yard,"  he  said  to 
Anice.  "  I  may  find  her  there." 

"  Will  you  let  me  go  too  ? "  Anice  asked. 

He  paused  a  moment. 

"  I  am  afraid  that  it  would  be  best  that  I  should  go 
alone." 

"  Let  me  go,"  she  pleaded.  "  Don't  be  afraid  for.  me. 
I  could  not  stay  away.  Let  me  go — for  Joan's  sake." 

So  he  gave  way,  and  they  passed  out  together.  But 
they  did  not  find  her  in  the  church-yard.  The  gate  had 
been  pushed  open  and  hung  swinging  on  its  hinges. 
There  were  fresh  footprints  upon  the  damp  clay  of  the 
path  that  led  to  the  corner  where  the  child  lay,  and  when 
they  approached  the  little  mound  they  saw  that  something 
had  been  dropped  upon  the  grass  near  it.  It  was  a  thin, 
once  gay -colored,  little  red  shawl.  Anice  bent  down  and 
picked  it  up.  "  She  has  been  here,"  she  said. 

It  was  Anice  who,  after  this,  first  thought  of  going  to 
the  old  cottage  upon  the  Knoll  Road.     The  afternoon  was 
12 


266  THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRIE'3. 

waning  when  they  left  the  church-yard  ;  when  they  came 
within  sight  of  the  cottage  the  sun  had  sunk  behind  the 
hills.  In  the  red,  wintry  light,  the  place  looked  terribly 
desolate.  Weeds  had  sprung  up  about  the  house,  and 
their  rank  growth  covered  the  very  threshold,  the  shutters 
hung  loose  and  broken,  and  a  damp  greenness  had  crept 
upon  the  stone  step. 

A  chill  fell  upon  her  when  they  stood  before  the  gate 
and  saw  what  was  within.  Something  besides  the  cling 
ing  greenness  had  crept  upon  the  step, — something  human, 
— a  homeless  creature,  who  might  have  staggered  there 
and  fallen,  or  who  might  have  laid  herself  there  to  die. 
It  was  Liz,  lying  with  her  face  downward  and  with  her  dead 
hand  against  the  closed  door. 


CHAPTEE  XL1Y. 

NOT  YET. 

MKS.  GALLOWAY  arose  and  advanced  to  meet  her  visitor 
with  a  slightly  puzzled  air. 

"  Mr. "  she  began. 

"Fergus   Derrick,"   ended    the  young  man.     "From 
Riggan,  madam." 

She  held  out  her  hand  cordially. 

"  Joan  is  in  the  garden,"  she  said,  after  a  few  momenta 
of  earnest  conversation.  "  Go  to  her." 

It  was  a  day  very  different  from  the  one  upon  which 
Joan  Lowrie  had  come  to  Ashley-Wold.  Spring  had  set 
her  light  foot  fairly  upon  the  green  Kentish  soil.  Farther 
north  she  had  only  begun  to  show  her  face  timidly,  but 
here  the  atmosphere  was  fresh  and  balmy,  the  hedges  were 
budding  bravely,  and  there  was  a  low  twitter  of  birds  in 
the  air.  The  garden  Anice  had  so  often  tended  was  flush 
ing  into  bloom  in  sunny  corners,  and  the  breath  of  early 
violets  was  sweet  in  it.  Derrick  was  conscious  of  their 
springtime  odor  as  he  walked  down  the  path,  in  the  direc 
tion  Mrs.  Galloway  had  pointed  out.  It  was  a  retired  nook 
where  evergreens  were  growing,  and  where  the  violet 
fragrance  was  more  powerful  than  anywhere  else,  for  the 
rich,  moist  earth  of  one  bed  was  blue  with  them.  Joan 
was  standing  near  these  violets, — he  saw  her  as  he  turned 
into  the  walk, — a  motionless  figure  in  heavy  brown  dra 
pery. 


268  THAT  LASS  V  LOWRIE'S. 

She  heard  him  and  started  from  her  reverie  "With 
another  half-dozen  steps  he  was  at  her  side. 

"  Don't  look  as  if  1  had  alarmed  you,"  he  said.  "  It 
seems  such  a  poor  beginning  to  what  1  have  come  to 
say." 

Her  hand  trembled  so  that  one  or  two  of  the  loose  violeta 
she  held  fell  at  his  feet.  She  had  a  cluster  of  their  fra 
grant  bloom  fastened  in  the  full  knot  of  her  hair.  The 
dropping  of  the  flowers  seemed  to  help  her  to  recover  her 
self.  She  drew  back  a  little,  a  shade  of  pride  in  her 
gesture,  though  the  color  dyed  her  cheeks  and  her  eyes 
were  downcast. 

"  I  cannot — I  cannot  listen,"  she  said. 

The  slight  change  which  he  noted  in  her  speech  touched 
him  unutterably.  It  was  not  a  very  great  change ;  she 
spoke  slowly  and  uncertainly,  and  the  quaint  northern 
burr  still  held  its  own,  and  here  and  there  a  word  betrayed 
her  effort. 

"No,  no,"  he  said,  "you  will  listen.  You  gave  me 
back  my  life.  You  will  not  make  it  worthless.  If  you 
cannot  love  me,"  his  voice  shaking,  "  it  would  have  been 
less  cruel  to  have  left  me  where  you  found  me — a  dead 
man, — for  whom  all  pain  was  over." 

He  stopped.  The  woman  trembled  from  head  to  foot. 
She  raised  her  eyes  from  the  ground  and  looked  at  him, 
catching  her  breath. 

"  Yo'  are  askin'  me  to  be  yore  wife !  "  she  said.     'l  Me  ! " 

"  I  love  you,"  he  answered.  "  You,  and  no  other 
woman ! " 

She  waited  a  moment  and  then  turned  suddenly  away 
from  him,  and  leaned  against  the  tree  under  which  they 
were  standing,  resting  her  face  upon  her  arm.  Her 
hand  clung  among  the  ivy  leaves  and  crushed  them. 


NOT  YET.  269 

Her  old  speech  came  back  in  the  quick  hushed  cry  sho 
uttered. 

"  I  eonna  turn  yo'  fro'  me,"  she  said.     "  Oh  !  1  conna  1 " 

"  Thank  God  !     Thank  God!  "  he  cried. 

He  would  ha\re  caught  her  to  his  breast,  but  she  held 
up  her  hand  to  restrain  him. 

"  Not  yet,"  she  said,  "  not  yet.  I  conna  turn  you  fro' 
me,  but  theer's  summat  I  must  ask.  Give  me  th'  time  to 
make  myself  worthy — give  me  th'  time  to  work  an'  strive; 
be  patient  with  me  until  th'  day  comes  when  I  can  come  to 
yo*  an'  know  I  need  not  shame  yo'.  They  say  I  am  na  slow 
at  learnin' — wait  and  see  how  I  can  work  for  th'  mon — foi 
th'  mon  I  love." 


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THAT  LASS  0'  LOWRIE'S. 


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